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‘‘That makes a ‘q/ don't you know?" 


# 




Young Folks’ 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin 


% 

Adapted for Children by 

GRACE DUFFIE BOYLAN 


With Original Illustrations by 

IKE MORGAN 



CHICAGO 

JAMIESON-HIGGINS CO. 
1901 


THE HBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Received 

MAY 27 1901 

COPVRIGMT ENTRY 

CLASS iX^XXc. N«. 

/ 

COPY 3, 


Copyright, 1901, 
Jamieson-Higgins Co. 





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V. 




Uncle Tom’s Cabin 


Chapter I. 

* I ^HE cabin of Uncle Tom was a small log building 
close to “the house,” as the negroes called their 
master’s dwelling. In front it had a neat garden patch 
where, every summer, fruits and vegetables of every 
variety flourished under careful tending. The whole 
front of it was covered with a large scarlet begonia vine, 
and a beautiful climbing rose twisted and interlaced 
until there was scarcely a bit of the rough logs to 
be seen. 

Aunt Chloe’s round, black shining face was so glossy 
it looked as though she might have been washed over 
with the white of eggs, like one of her own tea rusks. 
And her whole plump countenance beamed with delight 
under her well starched check turban, for her young 
Master George was there and he was sure to praise her 
supper even to her complete satisfaction. 

A cook she certainly was, even to the very bone and 
center of her soul. Not a chicken or a turkey or a duck 
in the barnyard but looked grave when it saw her ap- 
proaching, and seemed to reflect on its latter end. And 
in fact she was always meditating on stuffing and roast- 
ing to a degree that was calculated to inspire terror in 
any thoughtful fowl living. Her corncake, in all its 
varieties — hoecake, dodger and muffin — was a mys- 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 



tery to all less skillful cooks, and 
she would shake her fat sides 
with merriment when any of 
the other house servants at- 
tempted to prepare a meal for 
any of “Mas’r’s folks.” The ar-^ 
rival of company in the house, 
the arranging of dinners and 
suppers in style awoke all her 
energies, and no sight was more 
welcome to her than a pile of 
traveling trunks launched on the 
veranda. For then she foresaw fresh 
efforts and new triumphs. 

In one corner of the cabin stood a 
bed neatly covered with a snowy 
quilt. And on a piece of carpeting 
of considerable size, which covered 
a portion of the floor in front of it, 
Aunt Chloe was in the habit of taking her stand with 
impressive dignity. This little corner was the parlor of 
the establishment. The bed on the other side was the 
one designed for use, and there the small black children 
played and tumbled to their hearts’ desire, without a 
word of reproof from their mother. 

On a rough bench by the broad chimney a couple of 
woolly-headed boys were teaching the baby to walk. 
The tiny black creature would get on its feet, balance a 
minute and then tumble down while the boys cheered 
and encouraged her. 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


9 


A table somewhat rickety on its legs, like the baby 
was drawn into a comfortable place in front of the fire, 
and covered with a cloth and bright colored teacups and 
saucers. Uncle Tom — a tall black man with a look of 
great patience and power — sat beside the table trying 
to copy on a broken slate the letters of the alphabet 
that 1 3-year old Mas’r George was trying to make him 
understand. The children of the 
great house all loved and trusted 
Tom. He was only a little older 
than their father, and they never 
tired hearing him tell how “ Ole 
Mas’r Shelby,” their grandfather, 
had put the wee baby he so loved 
in his little black arms when he was only 
six years old and said : 

“ Tom, this is your young master. Watch 
him and play with him, and die for him, if 
it is necessary. Remember, you are his own.” 

“An’ I ain’t neber failed Mas’r in no way,” 

Tom would always say, at the end of his 
story. “ We’s be’n togeder, boy an’ man, an’ 
we’ll be togeder in de Ian’ beyond, w’en de 
gates ob heaven swing ajar. An’ Mas’r 
Arthur’s chil’un — why, dey’s jes’ as dear 
ter me as dese little folks ob my own,” 

Tom said to George, while they were wait- 
ing for Aunt Chloe to call them to supper. 

“ Well, we love you just the same as 
you do us. Uncle Tom,” George an- 
swered. “You taught me most every- 



10 


YOUNG FOLKS* 


thing I know — to swim and ride and everything — and 
you make me dandier kites than anyone.” 

Uncle Tom laughed: 

“ Heah dat boy, now! But, Mas’r Georgie, I neber 
did hav’ haf de trouble wif dem kitetails dat I’se havin' 
wif dis yer sassy little ‘g.’ I 'jes kain’t 'member how it 
does go.” 

“Not that way. Uncle Tom; not that way,” said the 
boy, as Uncle Tom brought the tail of the letter wrong 
side out. “That makes a ‘q,' don’t you see.? ” 

“For de Ian’ sakes, see dat boy!” said Aunt Chloe, 
admiringly. “ Dey ain’t no udder chil’ as smart as him 
nohow! I’se fixin’ yo’ suffin’ mighty good, honey ; suf- 
fin’ mighty good ! ” 

“All right. Aunt Chloe; I’m hungrier than a wolf! 
How you getting along. Uncle Tom.?” 

The huge black fingers worked on clumsily, as Tom 
answered : 

“ I’se gittin’ ter be de fines’ han’ writer yo’ eber see.” 

“Aunt Chloe,” said George, “ I’ve been bragging about 
you to Tom Lincom. I tell him their cook can’t hold a 
candle to you.” 

Aunt Chloe sat back in her chair, and indulged in 
hearty laughter at this witticism of young master’s, laugh- 
ing till the tears rolled down her black shining cheeks, 
and varying the exercise with playfully slapping and 
poking “Mas’r Georgie,” and telling him to “go ’way,” 
and that he was a case — that he was fit to kill her, and 
that “he sartin’ would kill her one of these days”; and 
between each of these predictions going off into a laugh, 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


11 


each longer and stronger than the other, till George 
really began to think that he was a very dangerously 
witty fellow, and that it became him to be careful how 
he talked “ as funny as he could.” 

“An’ so ye telled Tom, did ye? What young uns will 
be up ter! Ye crowed over Tom.? O Ian’ I Mas’r 
George, if ye woulda’t make a hornbug laugh I ” 

“Yes,” said George, “I says to 
him, ‘Tom, you ought to see 
some of Aunt Chloe’s pies; 
they’re the right sort,’ says I. 

I mean to ask Tom here some 
day next week, and you do 
your prettiest. Aunt Chloe, 
and we’ll make him stare.” 

“Yes, yes — sartin’,” said 
Aunt Chloe, delighted ; “you’ll 
see. Lan’l to think of some 
of our dinners! Yer mind 
dat ar great chicken pie I 
made when we guv de dinner 
to General Knox ? I and 
missis, we come pretty near 
quarrelin’ ’bout dat ar crust. 

What does get .into ladies 
sometimes, I don’t know; 
but sometimes when a body . 
has de heaviest kind o’ ’spon- j 
. >sibility on ’erri, and is all 
kinder 'seris' and taken up. 



12 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


dey takes dat ar time to be bangin’ round and kinder 
interferin’! Now, missis, she wanted me to do dis way, 
and she wanted me to do dat way; and finally I got 
kinder sarcy, and says I, ‘ Now, missis, do jist look at 
dem beautiful white hands o’ yourn, with long fingers, 
and all a’ sparklin’ with rings, like my white lilies when 
de dew’s on ’em; and look at my great, black stumpin’ 
hands. Now, don’t ye think dat de Lord must have 
meant me to make de pie crust, and you to stay in de 
parlor? ’ Dari I was jist so sarcy, Mas’r George.” 

“And what did mother say? ” said George. 

“Say? Why, she kinder larfed in her eyes — dem 
great, handsome eyes o’ hern; and, says she, ‘Well, 
Aunt Chloe, I think you are about in the right on ’t,’ 
says she, and she went off in de parlor. She oughter 
cracked me over de head for bein’ so sarcy; but dar’s 
whar ’t is — I can’t do nothin’ with ladies in de kitchen ! ” 

“Well, you made out well with that dinner — I re- 
member everybody said so,” said George. 

“ Didn’t I ? And wan’t I behind de dinin’-room door 
dat bery day ? And didn’t I see de gineral pass his plate 
three times for some more dat berry pie? And, says he, 
‘ Y ou must have an uncommon cook, Mrs. Shelby.’ 
Lan 1 I was laffin’ fit 4;o kill myself. And de gineral, he 
knows what cookin’ is,” said Aunt Chloe, drawing her- 
self up with an air. “ Bery nice man, de gineral I He 
comes of one of de bery /us/es/ families in Old Virginny! 
He knows what’s what, now, as well as I do. Ye see, 
there’s pints in all pies, Mas’r George; but ’tain’t every- 
body knows what they is, or orter be. But the gineral 
he knows ; I know by his ’marks he made.” 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


13 


By this time Master George had arrived at that pass 
to which even a boy can come, when he really could not 
eat another morsel ; and therefore he was at leisure to 
notice the pile of woolly heads and glistening eyes which 
were regarding their operations hungrily from the oppo- 
site corner. 

“ Here you Mose, Pete,” he said, breaking off bits and 
throwing at them ; “ you want some, don’t you } Come, 
Aunt Chloe, bake them some cakes.” 

And George and Tom moved to a comfortable seat in 
the chimney-corner while Aunt Chloe, after baking a 
pile of cakes, took her baby on her lap and began alter- 
nately filling its mouth and her own, and distributing to 
Mose and Pete who seemed rather to prefer eating theirs 
as they rolled about on the floor under the table, tickling 
each other, and occasionally pulling the baby’s toes. 

“ O, go ’long, will ye? ” said the mother; “can’t ye be 
decent when white folks comes to see ye ? Stop dat ar, 
now, will ye.^ Better mind yerselves, or I’ll take ye 
down when Mas’r George is gone! ” 

“ La, now! ” said Uncle Tom, “dey ar so full of tickle 
all de while dey can’t behave theirselves.” 

Here the boys emerged from under the table, and, 
with hands and faces well plastered with molasses, began 
kissing the baby. 

“ Get along wif ye ! ” said the mother, pushing away 
their woolly heads. “Ye’ll all stick together and never 
get clar, if ye do dat fashion. Go ’long to de spring an’ 
wash yerselves ! ” she said, with a slap, which seemed 
only to knock out so much more laugh from the young 


14 YOUNG FOLKS’ 

ones, as they tumbled over each 
other out of doors. 

“ Did ye eber see such aggra- 
vatin’ young uns ? ” said Aunt Chloe, rather compla- 
cently as, producing an old towel, she poured a little 
water out of the cracked teapot on it, and began rub- 
bing off the molasses from the baby’s face and hands ; 
and, having polished her till she shone, she set her 
down in Tom’s lap, while she busied herself in clear- 
ing away supper. The baby employed the intervals 
in pulling Tom’s nose, scratching his face, and burying 
her fat hands in his woolly hair, which last operation 
seemed to afford her special con- 
tent. 

“Ain’t she a pert young un ? ” 
said Tom, holding her from him to 
take a full-length view; then, get- 
ting up, he set her on his broad 
shoulder and began capering and 
dancing with her, while Master 
George snapped at her with his 
pocket-handkerchief, and Mose and 
Pete, now returned again, roared 
after her like bears till Aunt Chloe 
declared that they “ fairly took her 
head off ” with their noise. 

“ Well, now, I hopes you’se done,” 
said Aunt Chloe, when they had 
roared and tumbled and danced 
themselves tired, and she began 
pulling out a rude box of a trundle- 





UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


15 


bed; “and now, you Mose and you Pete, get into thar; 
for we’s goin’ to have the meetin’.” 

“ O, mother, we don’t wanter. We wants to sit up 
to meetin’.” 

“ La, Aunt Chloe, shove it under and let ’em sit up,” 
said Master George decisively, giving a push to the 
rude machine. 

Aunt Chloe having thus saved appearances, seemed 
highly delighted to push the thing under, saying, as she 
did so, “ Well, mebbe ’t will do ’em some good.” 

The accommodations and arrangements for the meet- 
ing had now to be considered. 

“ What we’s to do for cheers, now, / declar I don’t 
know,” said Aunt Chloe. As the meeting had been held 
at Uncle Tom’s weekly for an indefinite length of time, 
without any more “cheers,” there seemed some encour- 
agement to hope that a way would be discovered at 
present. 

“ Old Uncle Peter sung both de legs out of dat oldest 
cheer last week,” suggested Mose. 

“You go ’long! I’ll boun’ you pulled ’em out; some 
o’ your shines,” said Aunt Chloe. 

“Well, it’ll stand, if it only keeps jam up agin de 
wall I ” said Mose. 

“Den Uncle Peter mus’n’t sit in it, ’cause he al’ays 
hitches when he gets a’ singin’. Hef hitched pretty nigh 
across de room, t’other night,” said Pete. 

“Get ’im in it, den! ” shouted Mose, “an’ den he’d be- 
gin, ‘ Come, saints and sinners, hear me tell,’ and den 
down he’d go,” and the boy imitated the nasal tones of 


16 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


the old man, tumbling on the floor, to show what might 
happen. 

“ Come, now,” said Aunt Chloe, “ ain’t yer ’shamed ? 

Master George, Tiowever, joined in the laugh, and 
declared decidedly that Mose was a “ buster.” 

“Well, ole man,” said Aunt Chloe, “you’ll have to 
tote in them ar bar’ls.” 

“ Mother’s bar’ls is like dat ar widder’s, Mas’r George 
was readin’ ’bout in de good book — dey neber fails,’" 
said Mose, aside, to Pete. 

“ I’m sure one on ’em caved in last week,” said Pete, 
“an’ let ’em all down in de middle of de singin’; dat ar 
was failin’, warn’t it? ” 

During this aside between Mose and Pete, two empty 
casks had been rolled into the cabin, and being secured 
from rolling, by stones on each side, boards were laid 
across them which arrangement, together with the turn- 
ing down of certain tubs and pails and the disposing of 
the rickety chairs, at last completed the preparations. 

“ Mas’r George is sich a beautiful reader, now, I know 
he’ll stay to read for us,” said Aunt Chloe; “’pears like 
’t will be so much more interestin’.” 

George very readily consented, for your boy is always 
ready for anything that makes him of importance. 

The room was soon filled and after awhile the singing 
commenced, to the evident delight of all present. Not 
even all the disadvantage of nasal intonation could pre- 
vent the effect of the naturally fine voices, in airs at once 
wild and spirited. The words were sometimes the well- 
known and common hymns sung in the churches about, 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


17 



Master George read the last chapter of Revelations. 


18 


YOUNG FOLKS* 


and sometimes of a wilder, more indefinite character, 
picked up at camp-meetings. 

The chorus of one of them, which ran as follows, was 
sung with great energy: 

‘ ' Die on the field of battle, 

Die on the field of battle, 

Glory in my soul." 

Master George, by request, read the last chapters of 
Revelations, often interrupted by such exclamations as 
The sakes, now!” “Only hear that!” “Jest think 
on’t ! ” “ Is all that a cornin’, sure ’nough.^ ” 

George, who was a bright boy and well trained in 
religious things by his mother, finding himself an object 
of general admiration threw in expositions of his own 
from time to time with much seriousness and gravity, 
for which he was admired by the young and blessed by 
the old ; and it was agreed on all hands that “ a minis- 
ter couldn’t lay it off better than he did ; ” that “ ’t was 
reely ’mazin’! ” And he walked home in the moonlight 
with his young head held high, and his heart full of love 
for his humble friends in Uncle Tom’s cabin. 

Over in the great house, within sound of the singing, 
Mr. Shelby sat with a trader by the name of Haley, in 
the dining-room beside a table covered with papers and 
writing materials. Mr. Shelby’s face was sad, but he 
was busy counting over bundles of bills and passing 
them to the trader, who in turn counted them. 

“All fair,” said the latter. “ Now for signing these! ” 
Mr. Shelby hastily drew the bills of sale toward him, 
and signed them with the manner of a man who hurries 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


19 


through some disagreeable business. Then he pushed 
them over with the money. Haley produced from a 
well-worn valise, a paper which Mr. 

Shelby took with suppressed eager- 
ness. 

“Well, the thing is done,” said the 
trader, getting up. 

“ It’s done,” said Mr. Shelby, 
and then he repeated with a deep 
sigh: “ It is done.” 

“You don’t seem to be much 
pleased about it,” remarked the 
trader. 

“ Haley,” said the planter earn- 
estly, “ remember that you prom- 
ised me that you would not sell 
Tom without knowing what kind 
of hands he is going into.” 

“Why, you have done that,” 
answered the trader. “You have 
just sold him to me! ” 



Haley. 


20 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


Chapter II. 

'FLIZA had been brought up by her mistress from 
childhood as a petted and indulged favorite. She 
was a young quadroon with a fair, almost white face and 
soft brown eyes, and her hair curled in loose rich masses 
about her low, wide forehead and rose-tinted cheeks. 
She was married to a bright and talented mulatto by the 
name of George Harris, who lived on a neighboring 
estate, and they had one child, a beautiful little curly- 
haired boy, who was the pet of the family and the idol 
of his young mother’s heart. 

That night Eliza’s slender brown fingers trembled 
among Mrs. Shelby’s pretty braids, and the mistress 
looked up to see that she was crying. 

“ What is it, child she questioned kindly. “ There 
is nothing wrong with Harry, is there ” 

Eliza sank down to her knees. 

“ Oh, missis ! ” she sobbed, “ there’s been a trader here 
talking with master. I heard him.” 

“Well, silly child, suppose there has.?* ” 

“ Oh, missis, do you think mas’r would sell my 
Harry 

The poor young mother flung herself on the floor at 
her mistress’ feet and sobbed convulsively. 

“Sell him.? You foolish girl! ” Mrs. Shelby patted 
her maid’s shoulder playfully. “Of course not I You 
know your master never deals with these slave traders,, 
and never means to sell any of his servants as long as. 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


21 



they behave well. Why, you silly child ! Do you think 
all the world wants your baby ? ” 

“ But, missis — oh, missis ! you would never give your 
consent ? ” 

“Nonsense, child! To be sure I should not. There, 
dry your tears and run away and cuddle him in your 
arms. I will brush my hair myself for this time.” 

Eliza stooped over and 
kissed the little white hand, 
and then went to the door. 
At the threshold she hesi- 
tated and looked back. 

“Oh, missis,” she said, 
“ are you sure — sure ? ” 
Mrs. Shelby smiled brightly, 
and Eliza went 
away com- 
forted. 


<<Oh, missis!’^ she sobbed. 


22 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


The gentle little lady was still busy with her curls and 
braids when her husband entered the room. He took 
up a paper and sat down, sighing as he did so, and his> 
wife said : 

“Arthur, who is that disagreeable looking person who- 
was here to-day? Is he a negro trader? ” 

“ Why, why, my dear, what put that into your head ? 

“ Nothing, only Eliza came in here after dinner in a 
great worry, crying and taking on. She said you were 
talking with a trader, and that she heard him make you 
an offer for her boy.” 

“ She did, hey ? ” said Mr. Shelby, returning to his 
paper, which he seemed for a few moments quite intent 
upon, not perceiving that he was holding it bottom^ 
upward. 

“ It will have to come out,” said he, mentally ; “ as well 
now as ever.” 

“ I told Eliza,” said Mrs. Shelby, as she continued 
brushing her hair, “ that you never had anything to do 
with that sort of persons. Of course, I know you never 
meant to sell any of our people.” 

“Well, Emily,” said her husband, “so I have always 
felt and said; but the fact is, that my business lies sa 
that I cannot get on without. I shall have to sell some 
of my hands.” 

“To that creature? Impossible! You cannot be 
serious I ” 

“ I’m sorry to say that I am.” said Mr. Shelby. “ I’ve 
agreed to sell Tom.” 

“What! our Tom? That good, faithful creature 
who has been your faithful servant from a boy ! And 


UNCLE TOM»S CABIN. 


23 


recollecting herself, 
I was surprised and 


you have promised him his freedom, too — you and I 
have spoken to him a hundred times of it. Well, I can 
believe anything now — I can believe now that you 
could sell little Harry, poor Eliza’s only child ! ” said 
Mrs. Shelby, in a tone between grief and indignation. 

“Well, since you must know all, it is so. I have 
agreed to sell Tom and Harry both; and I don’t know 
why I am to be rated as if I were a monster for doing 
what every one does every day.” 

“ My dear,” said Mrs. Shelby, 

“forgive me. I have been hasty, 
entirely unprepared for this; but 
surely you will allow me to inter- 
cede for these poor creatures. Tom 
is a noble-hearted, faithful fellow, if 
he is black. I do believe that if he 
were put to it he would lay down 
his life for you.” 

“ I know it — 

I dare say; but 
what’s the use 
of all of this.*^ I 
can’t help my- 
self. I’m sorry 
you feel so about 
it, Emily — in- 
deed, I am,” said 
Mr. Shelby; “and 
I respect your 
feelings, too, 

* I^m sorry you feel so about it, Emily.’* 



24 


YOUNG FOLKS* 


though I don’t pretend to share them to their full extent; 
but I tell you now, solemnly, it’s of no use — I can’t help 
myself. I didn’t mean to tell you this, Emily; but, in 
plain words, there is no choice between selling these 
two and selling everything. Either they must go, or all 
must. Haley — that’s the trader’s name — has come 
into possession of a mortgage, which, if I don’t clear off 
with him directly, will take everything before it. I’ve 
raked and scraped and borrowed, and all but begged — 
and the price of these two was needed to make up the 
balance, and I had to give them up. Haley fancied the 
child; he agreed to settle the matter that way, and no 
other. I was in his power, and had to do it. If you 
feel so to have them sold, would it be any better to 
have all sold ? ” 

Mrs. Shelby stood like one stricken. Finally, turning 
to her dressing table, she rested her face in her hands 
and cried. 

“ I’m sorry, very sorry, Emily,” said Mr. Shelby, “but 
the thing’s done ; the bills of sale are already signed and 
in Haley’s hands; and you must be thankful it is no 
worse. That man has had it in his power to ruin us all, 
and now he is fairly off. If you knew the man as I do, 
you’d think that we had had a narrow escape.” 

“ Is he so hard, then ? ” 

“ Why, not a cruel man, exactly, but a man of leather 
— a man alive to nothing but trade and profit — cool 
and unhesitating, and unrelenting.” 

“And this wretch owns that good, faithful Tom, and 
Eliza’s child ” 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


25 


“Well, my dear, the fact is that this goes rather hard 
with me; it’s a thing I hate to think of. Haley wants 
to drive matters, and take possession to-morrow. I’m 
going to get out my horse bright and early, and be off. 
I can’t see Tom, that’s a fact; and you had better arrange 
a drive somewhere, and carry Eliza off. Let the thing 
be done when she is out of sight.” 

“No, no,” said Mrs. Shelby; “I’ll be in no sense 
accomplice or help in this cruel business. I’ll go and 
see poor old Tom; God help him in his distress! They 
shall see, at any rate, that their mistress can feel for and 
with them. As to Eliza, I dare not think about it. The 
Lord forgive us I ” 

There was one listener' to this conversation whom Mr. 
and Mrs. Shelby little suspected. 

Communicating with their apartment was a large 
closet, opening by a door into the outer passage. When 
Mrs. Shelby had dismissed Eliza for the night, she had 
hidden herself there, and, with her ear pressed close 
against the crack of the door, had lost not a word of the 
conversation. 

When the voices died into silence, she rose and crept 
stealthily away. Pale, shivering, with rigid features and 
compressed lips, she moved cautiously along the entry, 
paused one moment at her mistress’ door, and raised her 
hands in mute appeal to Heaven, and then turned and 
glided into her own room. It was a quiet, neat apart- 
ment, on the same floor with her mistress. There was 
the pleasant sunny window, where she had often sat 
singing at her sewing; there a little case of books, and 
various little fancy articles ranged by them, the gifts of 


26 


YOUNG FOLKS* 


Christmas holidays; there was her simple wardrobe in 
the closet and in the drawers — here was, in short, her 
home; and, on the whole, a happy one it had been to 
her. But there on the bed lay her slumbering boy, his 
long curls falling around his unconscious face, his rosy 
mouth half open, his little fat hands thrown out over 
the bedclothes, and a smile spread like a sunbeam over 
his whole face. 

“ Poor boy ! ” said Eliza, “ they have sold you ! But 
your mother will save you yet ! ” 

She took a piece of paper and a pencil, and wrote 
hastily : 

‘‘O missis! dear missis! don’t think me ungrateful — don’t 
think hard of me, anyway — I heard all you and master said 
to-night. I am going to try to save my boy — you will not blame 
me! God bless and reward you for all your kindness! ” 

Hastily folding and directing this, she went to a drawer 
and made up a little package of clothing for her boy, 
which she tied with a handkerchief firmly round her 
waist. 

“Where are you going, mother.? ” said he, awakening, 
as she drew near the bed with his little coat and cap. 

“Hush, Harry,” she said; “mustn’t speak loud, or 
they will hear us. A wicked man was coming to take 
little Harry away from his mother, and 'carry him ’way 
off in the dark; but mother won’t let him — she’s going 
to put on her little boy’s cap and coat and run off with 
him, so the ugly man can’t catch him.” 

Saying these words, she had tied and buttoned on the 
child’s simple outfit, and, taking him in her arms, she 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


27 



The light of the tallow flared suddenly into the eyes of the girl. 


28 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


whispered to him to be very still; and opening a door 
in her room which led into the outer veranda she glided 
noiselessly out. 

It was a sparkling, frosty, starlight night, and the 
mother wrapped the shawl close round her child as, per- 
fectly quiet with vague terror, he clung round her neck. 

Old Bruno, a great Newfoundland, that slept at the 
end of the porch, rose, with a low growl, as she came 
near. She spoke to him gently, and the old pet leaped 
up, wagging his tail and ready to follow her. He wanted 
to bark in his delight and surprise, but Harry stretched 
out his little hand and whispered, “ Hush ! ” warningly, 
and in a few moments Eliza was tapping on Uncle 
Tom’s window pane. 

“ What’s that.? ” Aunt Chloe sprang up and drew the 
curtain. “Why, my sakes alive, if it ain’t ’Lizy!” 

She opened the door, and the light of the tallow flared 
suddenly into the eyes of the girl. 

“I’m running away. Uncle Tom — Aunt Chloe!” she 
gasped. “ I’m carrying away my baby. Mas’r sold him I ” 

“ Sold him .? ’ Four black hands were lifted in dismay. 

“ Yes,” said Eliza, firmly; “ I crept into the closet and 
heard mas’r tell missis that- he had sold Harry and you, 
Tom. Oh, poor old Tom! you, too!” 

Tom stood like a man in a dream; then the cry of his 
old wife startled him, and he fell into his chair and sunk 
his head dowm on his knees. 

“ The Lord have pity on us ! ” said Aunt Chloe. 
“What has Tom done that mas’r should sell him.? ” 

“ He hasn’t done anything — it isn’t for that. Master 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


29 


don’t want to sell ; and missis — she’s always good. I 
heard her plead and beg for us ; but he told her ’t was 
no use; that he was in this man’s debt, and that this man 
had got the power over him ; and that if he didn’t pay 
him off clear, it would end in his having to sell the place 
and all the people, and move off. Yes, I heard him say 
there was no choice between selling these two and selling 
all, the man was driving him so hard.” 

“Well, ole man!” said Aunt Chloe, “why don’t* you 
go, too.f^ Will you wait to be toted down river? I’d a’ 
heap rather die than go there, any day 1 There’s time 
for ye — be off with ’Lizy — you’ve got a pass to come 
and go any time. Come, bustle up, and I’ll get your 
things together.” 

Tom slowly raised his head, and looked sorrowfully 
but quietly around, and said : 

“ No, no ; I ain’t going. Let ’Lizy go — it’s her right ! 
But you heard what she said I If I must be sold, or all 
the people on the place and everything go to rack, why, 
let me be sold. Mas’r always found me on the spot — 
he always will. I never have broke trust, nor used my 
pass no ways contrary to my word, and I never will. It’s 
better for me alone to go, than to break up the place and 
sell all. Mas’r ain’t to blanie, Chloe, and he’ll take care 
of you and the poor ” 

Here he turned to the rough trundle-bed full of little 
woolly heads, and broke fairly down. He leaned over 
the back of the chair and covered his face with his large 
hands. Sobs, heavy, hoarse and loud, shook the chair, 
and great tears fell through his fingers on the floor. 

“And now,” said Eliza, as she stood in the door, “ I 


30 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


saw my husband only this afternoon, and I little knew 
then what was to come. They have pushed him to the 
very last standing place, and he told me to-day that he 
was going to run away. Do try, if you can, to get word 
to him. Tell him how I went, and why I went; and tell 
him I’m going to try and find Canada. You must give 
my love to him, and tell him, if I never see him again,” 
she turned away, and stood with her back to them for a 
moment, and then added, in a husky voice, “ tell him to 
be as good as he can, and try and meet me in the king- 
dom of heaven. Call Bruno in there,” she added. “Shut 
the door on him, poor beast! He mustn’t go with me! ” 
A few last words and tears, a few simple adieus and 
blessings, and, clasping her child in her arms, she glided 
away. 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


31 


Chapter III. 

44 J WONDER what keeps Eliza,” said Mrs. Shelby, 
the next morning. “ I have rung the bell three 
times and can’t make her hear! Andy,” — a colored boy 
came in with shaving water for Mr. Shelby, — “ step to 
Eliza’s door and call her. Ah, poor child I ” she added 
to herself, with a sigh. 

Andy came back through the hall stuttering with 
astonishment: 

“ L-lan’, M-Missy — ’L-Lizy’s tings is all scattered ’roun’ 
ter which ways, an’ she’s done dared out! ” 

Mrs. Shelby sprang to her feet and looked at her 
husband. 

“ The Lord be thanked ! ” she cried. But Mr. Shelby 
muttered something under his breath, and hurried from 
the room. 

There was a great deal of running about and excite- 
ment; but in her own pleasant room Mrs. Shelby was 
walking back and forth and praying, with tears, that the 
poor young mother would get safely away before she was 
overtaken by Haley on his swift horse. 

A dozen little blacks were roosting like crows on the 
veranda railing when the trader rode up. 

“Is yo* all gwine to take li’l Harry asked woolly 
headed Mandy, with a great show of interest. 

“Yes,” answered the trader, switching her bare black 
legs with his riding whip. 

Her weazened face twisted into an impudent grin : 


32 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


“Is yer gwine ter take him now, or wait twell yo’ cotch 
him ? ” she asked; and as he looked at her in amazement, 
Rastus, who was perched on the piazza post, explained : 

“’Lizy’s done make hussef source — oh, what fo’ yo' 
do dat ? ” 

Haley had started forward and whirled the whole lot 
onto the ground into a squirming mixture of black arms 



f 




and legs, and then, leaving them tumbling and giggling 
around on the soft sward, turned to go into the house. 

He had a short and angry talk with Mr. Shelby, whom 
he accused of helping the mother and child to run away; 
and then, Sam, who was waiting for something to turn 
up to interest him, while he camped in the sun by the 
side of the house, was ordered to bring up the horses. 
“’Lizy’s cut stick and run,” said Andy, breathless, 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 3» 

with importance; “an’ Mas ’r wants yo’ all ter help Mas’r 
Haley cotch her.” 

Sam jumped to his feet. “ Dat’s de.talk,” he said; 
“dis yer nigger’s jes as smart as Tom. I’se gwine ter 
fotch dat gal home in de jerk ob a lamb’s tail.” 

“ Oh, yo’ is.^ ” Andy went closer and spoke in a low 
voice: “ Wull, if yo’ does, missis ’ll git in yo’ wool. She 
don’ want ’Lizy cotched. Yo’ heah! Didn’t I heah huh 
say, ‘De Lord be praised!’ when I tol’ huh dat de gal 
done got away. If yo’ wants lasses on yo’ co’n pone, yo’ 
see dat dey ain’t no fotchin’ back dis day ! ” 

Sam scratched his inky wool and thought hard, and 
Andy said, with sudden briskness, as he saw the trader 
come near: 

“ Yo’ fly aroun’an’git up dem bosses, like I done tol’ 
yo’. Make tracks, now, mighty libly, fo’ I hearn missis 
say, ‘ Why don’t dat good-fo’-nuflin’ Sam hurry up wif 
Jerry an’ Bill ? ’ ” 

Sam, upon this, began to bestir himself in earnest, and 
very soon came back with the two spirited horses in full 
canter. Haley’s horse, a skittish young colt, winced and 
cavorted, pulling at his halter. 

“ Ho! ” said Sam, “skeery, are ye.f^” and his black eyes 
twinkled with a sudden mischief. “Wull, I’ll fix yo’ an’ 
yo’r mas’r, see if I don’t ! ” 

There was a large beech tree overshadowing the place, 
and the small, sharp, triangular beechnuts lay scattered 
thickly on the ground. With one of these in his fingers, 
Sam approached the colt, stroked and patted and seemed 
apparently busy in soothing his agitation. On pretense 
of adjusting the saddle, he adroitly slipped under it the 


54 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


sharp little nut, in such a manner that the least weight 
brought upon the saddle would annoy the nervous sensi- 
bilities of the animal, without leaving any perceptible 
graze or wound. 

“ Dar ! ” he said, rolling his eyes with an approving 
grin ; “ me fix ’em ! ” 

At this moment Mrs. Shelby appeared on the balcony, 
beckoning to him. 

“ Why have you been loitering so, Sam ? I sent Andy 
to tell you to hurry.” 

“ Lord bless you, missis ! ” said Sam, “bosses won’t be 
cotched all in a minnit ; they’d done dared out way down 
to the south pasture, and the Lord knows whar ! ” 

“ Well, Sam, you are to go with Mr. Haley, to show 
him the road, and help him. Be careful of the horses, 
Sam; you know Jerry was a little lame last week; dont 
ride them too fast ! ” 

Mrs. Shelby spoke the last words with a low voice, 
and strong emphasis. 

“ Let dis child alone for dat ! ” said Sam, rolling up his 
eyes with a volume of meaning. 

Now, Andy,” said Sam, returning to his stand under 
the beech trees, “you see, I wouldn’t be ’t all surprised if 
dat ar gen’lman’s crittur should gib a fling, by and by, 
when he comes to be a gettin’ up. You know, Andy, 
critturs will do such things ; ” and therewith Sam poked 
Andy in the side. 

“ High ! ” said Andy, with an air of instant appre- 
ciation. 

“Yes, you see, Andy, missis wants to make time — 
dat ar’s clar to der most or’nary ’bserver. I jis make a 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 



Turned Somersaults. 


little for her. Now, you see, get 
all dese yer bosses 
loose, caperin’permiscus 
round dis yer lot and 
down to de wood dar, 
and I ’specs mas’r won’t 
be off in a hurry.’* 

Andy grinned. 

“ Nobuddy neber kin 
tell what shines a boss 
is gwine ter cut up,” 

Sam said; “an’ ef Mas’r Haley’s colt happens ter git 
away, we all wull jest nachelly have ter let go ob Jerry 
an’ Bill ter help ’im.” 

The two went through all sorts of silent dances to 
■express their delight, and finally Sam started from the 
veranda and turned somersaults all the way down to the 
fence, rolling head over heels, 
like a big black ball. Andy 
followed, turning handsprings, 
and landing at the foot of the 
incline just as Mr. Haley came 
out of the house. 

“ Here, you black rascals ! ” he 
called, “ bring up my horse.” 

“ Yessuh ! ” Sam unfastened 
the strap from the post, and a 

J moment later Andy came up 

K with Bill and Jerry. 

“Look alive, now,” said the 

Andy Followed. 



36 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


trader, “and see that we don’t lose any more time.’^ 
He sprang to the saddle, and his horse, with a leap and 
a spring, threw him headlong on to the ground, and, 
overturning the solemn-faced young Sam, was off and 
away at full speed down to the farther end of the lot,, 
followed by Bill and Jerry. 

Haley jumped to his feet. “Catch ’em!” he cried,, 
starting after the racing horses. Andy looked over his 
shoulder with innocent eyes. 

“ Yessur, we’s sure gwine ter cotch ’em, right smart,”" 
he said; “come on, chillun, yo’ all help cotch Mas’r 
Haley’s hoss 1 ” 

Fifty or more pickaninnies of all ages started running: 
and whooping and flourishing their arms; and, of course,, 
the horses pranced and cavorted and kept out of reach. 
Then all the dogs on the plantation added their confu- 
sion, and the trader’s fleet and spirited horse appeared ta 
take delight in seeing how near he could allow his pur- 
suers to come without touching him. The three runners 
had for a coursing ground a lawn nearly a mile in extent,, 
and beyond that a woodland of forty acres. Sam had 
left the bars down that led to the timber, and occasion- 
ally the horses would disappear for a while, only to come 
out as though quite ready to surrender. But the moment 
a hand stretched out toward their bridles, away they’d 
go, full tilt, and the trader raged and stormed unheard 
in the tumult of barks and shouts and clattering hoofs. 

Mr. Shelby tried to shout directions from the window,, 
and up on the balcony Mrs. Shelby watched and laughed 
and sobbed as she prayed for more time for Eliza and 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


37 


the child. At last, about 12 o’clock, Sam rode up on 
Jerry, leading Mr. Haley’s horse by his side. 

‘ He’s cotched! ” said the black rascal; “didn’t I tol’ 
yo’ I’d cotch him.f^” 

“ Y ou ? ” growled the trader. “ If it hadn’t been for 
you all this wouldn’t have happened.” 

Mrs. Shelby came out on the veranda, smiling sweetly. 

“You really must wait long enough for dinner, now, 
Mr. Haley,” she said, cordially. “ It will not detain you 
long, and you must be quite fatigued.” 

The man glanced at her keenly, but she looked very 
innocent, and he said: 

“Thank you, ma’am; I believe I might just as well.” 

Andy and Sam, safe in the shelter of the barn, rolled 
on the floor and laughed at their success. 

“He won’t git away from here befo’ 2 o’clock,” said 
Sam; “an’ by dat time ’Lizy’s bound ter hav’ a right 
smart start. Come, Andy, let’s go up to the kitchen. 
Missis ’ll see dat we git a good bite dis time.” 


38 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


Chapter IV. 

T)AST the boundaries of the farm, the grove, the wood 
lot and along the road Eliza passed, carrying her 
boy in her arms. She had often been with her mistress 

to visit some relatives in the little village of T not 

far from the Ohio River, and knew the road well. In 
the first hurried plan for her escape, she thought if she 
could get across the stream she could make her way to 
Canada, where she knew she and her child would be safe. 
All through the night she fled like a shadow, scarcely 
feeling the weight of the little one; but when day came 
she knew that she must be careful and not excite sus- 
picion by her haste. She straightened her bonnet and 
shawl, and set Harry down to walk; and when his tiny 
feet lagged, she rolled apples in front and coaxed him to 
run after them. By this strategy they covered many 
half miles, and then, in the wooded paths again, she 
caught him up and ran ever onward toward the river. 

An hour before sunset they reached the town by the 
Ohio. Both she and the child were so white that they 
could not be suspected of being runaway slaves, and 
that fact made the mother bold, and she turned to a. 
small public house on the bank of the stream. The 
hostess was busy preparing the evening meal when 
Eliza’s sweet and sorrowful voice called her. 

“What is it?” she asked, coming forward. 

“Is there any ferry or boat that takes people over? ”* 
Eliza asked. 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


39 



Stumbling — Leaping — Slipping. 



40 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


“No, indeed; look at the river! The boats have all 
stopped running.” 

Eliza glanced toward the stream. It was now early 
spring, and the water was swollen and turbulent. Great 
cakes of ice were swinging to and fro in the waters. 
Owing to the peculiar formation of the Kentucky shore, 
the land bending far out into the water, the ice had been 
detained and lodged in great quantities, and in the nar- 
row channel that swept around the curve, cakes piled one 
above the other thus forming a temporary barrier to the 
descending ice which lodged into a great raft, filling up 
the whole river almost to the Kentucky shore. 

The woman saw Eliza’s look of dismay. 

“Maybe you have some one sick over there.?” she 
said. “You look like you was mighty anxious.” 

“ I have a child in great danger,” said Eliza, with a 
sob. “I never heard of it until last night, and I’ve 
walked quite a piece to-day to get to the ferry.” 

“ Well now, that is unlucky,” said the kind soul. “ I’m 
real sorry for you. Solomon ! ” she called, and a man 
with a leather apron and dirty hands answered. “ Is 
that man going to take the barrels over the river 
to-night ? ” 

“He said he would try, if it was in any way prudent,” 
answered the man; and the woman explained: “ There’s 
a man a piece down here that’s going over with some 
truck this evening, if he dares. He’ll be here to supper 
to-night, so you’d best sit down and wait. That’s a 
sweet little fellow,” she added, offering him a cake; but 
the child began to cry. 

“ He’s so tired,” said Eliza. 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


41 


“Well, step right in here and rest yourselves,” said 
the hostess. 

Eliza laid her boy on the bed and sat beside him, 
holding his hands until he slept. An hour after, she 
looked out of the window just in time to see Haley and 
the two negro boys ride into the yard. For a moment 
her heart stopped its beating. Then she caught up her 
child and was out of the side door of her room and 
away to the river. The trader caught a glimpse of her 
just as she was disappearing down the bank, and throw- 
ing himself on his horse, and calling loudly to Sam and 
Andy, he was after her like a hound after a deer. In 
that moment her feet seemed hardly to touch the ground, 
and a second brought her to the water’s edge. Right 
on behind they carne ; and, nerved with strength such as 
God gives only to the desperate, with one wild cry and 
flying leap she vaulted sheer over the turbid current by 
the shore on to the raft of ice beyond. It was a des- 
perate leap — impossible to anything but madness and 
despair; and Haley, Sam and Andy cried out, and lifted 
up their hands, as she did it. 

The huge green fragment of ice on which she alighted 
pitched and creaked as her weight came on it, but she 
staid there not a moment. With wild cries and desperate 
energy she leaped to another and still another cake ; stum- 
bling — leaping — slipping — springing upward again ! 
Her shoes are gone — her stockings cut from her feet — 
while blood marked every step; but she saw nothing, 
felt nothing, till dimly, as in a dream, she saw the Ohio 
side, and a man helping her up the bank. 

“ Yer a brave girl, now, whoever ye are ! ” said the man. 


42 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


Eliza recognized the. voice and face of a man who 
owned a farm not far from her old home. 

“O, Mr. Symmes — save me — do save me — do hide 
me! ” said Eliza. 

“ Why, what’s this ? ” said the man. “ Why, if ’tain’t 
Shelby’s girl 1 ” 

“My child! This boy — he’d sold him! There is his 
master,” said she, pointing to the Kentucky shore. “ O, 
Mr. Symmes, you’ve got a little boy.” 

“So I have,” replied the man, as he roughly but kindly 
drew her up the steep bank; “besides, you are a brave 
girl, and I like grit wherever I see it. Go up to that 
house there,” he continued, pointing to a large white 
building. “There’s no place that I can take you; but 
they will look after you up there. I don t know what 
my old neighbor Shelby will say to me; but you’ve 
earned your freedom, and you shall have it for all of me.’" 

Eliza could not speak, but she looked her thanks; and 
then, holding her boy close to her heart, walked rapidly 
on in the direction of the house, and the gray mist came 
up from the river and hid her from the sight of the 
trader, who raged and stormed on the opposite bank of 
the stream. 

It was 1 1 o’clock when Sam and Andy reached home 
after Eliza’s escape and went clattering up to the end of 
the balcony. Mrs. Shelby flew to the railings. 

“Is that you, Sam.? Where are they.? ” 

“Mas’r Haley’s a-restin’ at the tavern; he’s drefful 
tired, missis.” 

“And Eliza, Sam .? ” 

“ Wal, she’s clar ’cross Jordan. As a body may say, 
in the Ian’ o’ Canaan.” 

“ Why, Sam, what do you mean .? ” 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


43 


“ Wal, missis, de Lord he persarves his own. ’Lizy’s 
done gone over de river into ’Hio, as ef de Lord took 
her over in a chariot of fire an’ two bosses.” 

“ Come up here, Sam,” said Mr. Shelby, who had fol- 
lowed on to the veranda, “ and tell your mistress what 
she wants. Come, come, Emily,” said he, passing his 
arm around her, “you are cold and all in a shiver; you 
allow yourself to 


feel too much.” 

“Feel too 
much! Am not 
I a woman — a 
mother ? Are we 
not both respon- 
sible to God for 
this poor girl.f* ” 

“Here, Andy, 
yo’ niggah, be 
alive!” called 
Sam, under the 
veranda; “take 
dese yer bosses 
to de barn ; don’t 
yer heah mas’r a 
callin’.?” and 
Sam soon ap- 
peared, palm-leaf 

in hand, at the parlor door. „p h„e, Sam!” 

“Now, Sam, tell us 

distinctly how the matter was,” said Mr. 
Shelby. “ Where is Eliza, if you know.? ” 



44 


YOUNG FOLKS* 


“ Wal, masV, I saw her, with my own eyes, a crossin’ 
on de floatin’ ice. It was jes’ dis way: Mas’r Haley an’ 
me an’ Andy, we comes up to de little tavern, an’ I was 
ahead, case I was de anxiousest ter cotch ’Lizy; an’ when 
I comes by de tavern winder, sure ’nough, der she was 
right in plain sight, an’ dey diggin’ on behind. Wal, I 
loses off my hat, and sings out ’nuff to raise de, dead. 
Course, ’Lizy she bars, an’ she dodges back when Mas’r 
Haley he goes pas’ the door; an’ then, I tell ye, she 
dared out de side door; she went down de riber bank; 
Mas’r Haley he seed her, and yelled out, an’ him an’ me 
an’ Andy we took arter. Down she come to de ribber, 
and thar was de current runnin’ ten feet wide by de 
shore, an’ over t’other side, ice a sawin’ and a jigglin’ up 
an’ down, like a great island. We come right behind 
her, an’ I tho’t he’d got her, sure ’nough; when she gin 
sich a screech as I neber hearn, an’ thar she was, clar 
over t’other side de current, on the ice, and then on she 
went, a screechin’ and a jumpin’ — de ice went crack! 
c’wallop! crackin’! chunk! an’ she a boundin’ like a 
deer! ” 

Mrs. Shelby sat perfectly silent, pale with excitement, 
while Sam told his story. 

“ God be praised, she isn’t dead ! ” she said. 

“ Ef it hadn’t been for me to-day,” said Sam, “ she’d a 
been took a dozen times. Warn’t it I started off de 
bosses dis yer mornin’, an’ kep’ ’em chasin’ till nigh din- 
ner time.f^ An’ didn’t I car’ Mas’r Haley nigh five miles 
out of de road, dis evenin’, or else he’d a come up with 
’Lizy es easy es a dog arter a coon. These yer’s all 
providences.” 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


45 


“ They are a kind of providences that you’ll have to 
be pretty sparing of, Sam. I allow no such practices 
with gentlemen on my place,” said Mr. Shelby, with as 
much sternness as he could command under the cir- 
cumstances. But he drew a long breath and smiled, as 
the negroes went out for their reward at the hands of 
Aunt Chloe in the kitchen.- 


46 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


Chapter V. 

C ENA TOR BIRD, of Ohio, was explaining to his 
wife the new law which had been passed, forbid- 
ding people to help or shelter any runaway slaves that 
came over from Kentucky. And the little woman, who 
was not taller than her husband’s heart was high from 
the floor, was standing, with flashing eyes and glowing 
cheeks, and declaring that she would break the wicked 
law if she ever had a chance, when old Cudjoe put his 
woolly head into the door: 

“ Missis,” he said, “ would yo’ all 
come ter de kitchen fer a minnit.f^ ” 
The good little woman hurried 
out, and the senator stood looking 
smilingly into the fire until he 
heard her call suddenly: 

“John, John! I wish you would 
come right out here — quick! ” 

He laid down his paper and went 
into the kitchen, and started, quite 
amazed at the sight that presented 
itself : A young and slender woman, 
with garments torn and frozen, with 
one shoe gone and the stocking 
torn away from the cut and bleeding 
foot, was laid back in a swoon upon 
two chairs. There was the impress 
of the despised race on her face, yet 

Would yo’ all come ter de 
kitchen fer a minnit?” 



UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


47 



A young and slender woman, with garments torn and frozen. 


48 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


none couldTielp” feel its mournful and pathetic beauty. 
He drew his breath short and stood in silence. His wife 
and old Aunt Dinah were busily engaged in restorative 
measures, while old Cudjoe had got the boy on his knee, 
and was busy pulling off his shoes and stockings and 
chafing his little cold feet. 

“Ef she ain’t a sight to behold!” said old Dinah; 
“ ’pears like ’t was the heat that made her faint. She 
was tol’able peart when she cum in and asked ef she 
couldn’t warm hersef here a spell ; an’ I was jist a askin’ 
her whar she cum from an’ she fainted right down. 
Nevah done much ha’d work, guess, by de looks ob her 
ban’s.” 

“ Poor creature 1 ” said Mrs. Bird, as the woman slowly 
unclosed her large, dark eyes and looked vacantly at her. 
Suddenly an expression of agony crossed her face, and 
she sprang up, saying, “O, my Harry! Have they got him?” 

The boy, at this, jumped from Cudjoe’s knee, and, 
running to her side, put up his arms. “ O, he’s here, 
he’s here ! ” she exclaimed. 

“ O, ma’am ! ” said she, wildly, to Mrs. Bird, “ do pro- 
tect us ! Don’t let them get him ! ” 

“ Nobody shall hurt you here, my poor woman,” said 
Mrs. Bird, encouragingly. “You are safe; don’t be 
afraid.” 

“ God bless you ! ” said the woman, covering her facd 
and sobbing; while the little boy, seeing her crying, tried 
to get into her lap. ‘ 

With many gentle and womanly offices, which none 
knew better how to render than Mrs. Bird, Eliza was, in 
time, rendered more calm. A bed was provided for her 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


49 


on the settle near the fire, and after a short time she fell 
into a heavy slumber, with the child, who seemed no less 
weary, soundly sleeping on her arm. 

Mr. and Mrs. Bird had gone back to the parlor, where 
no reference was made, on either side, to the preceding 
conversation; but Mrs. Bird busied herself with her 
knitting-work, and Mr. Bird pretended to be reading 
the paper. 

“ I wonder who she is ! ” said Mr. Bird, at last, as he 
laid it down. 

“ When she wakes up and feels a little rested we will 
see,” said Mrs. Bird. 

“ I say, wife ! ” said Mr. Bird, after musing in silence 
over his newspaper. 

“Well, dear.?” 

“ She couldn’t wear one of your gowns, could she, by 
any letting down or such matter.? She seems to be 
rather larger than you are.” 

A quite perceptible smile glimmered on Mrs. Bird’s 
face as she answered, “We’ll see.” 

Another pause, and Mr. Bird again broke out: 

“ I say, wife ! ” 

“ Well ! What now .? ” 

“ Why, there is that old cloak that you keep on pur- 
pose to put over me when I take my afternoon’s nap; 
you might as well give her that — she needs clothes.” 

At this instant Dinah looked in to say that the woman 
was awake and wanted to see missis. 

Mr. and Mrs. Bird went into the kitchen, followed by 
the two eldest boys. 

Eliza was now sitting up on the settle by the fire. 


50 


YOUNG FOLKS* 


She was looking steadily into the blaze, with a calm, 
heartbroken expression, very different from her former 
agitated wildness. 

“ Did you want me ? ” said Mrs. Bird, in gentle tones. 
“ I hope you feel better now, poor woman ! ” 

A long-drawn, shivering sigh was the only answer; 
but she lifted her dark eyes and fixed them on her with 
such a forlorn and imploring expression that the tears 
came into the little woman’s eyes. 

“You needn’t be afraid of anything; we are friends 
here. Tell me where you came from and what you 
want,” said she. 

“ I came from Kentucky,” said Eliza. 

“When.?” said Mr. Bird. 

“ To-night.” 

“ How did you come.? ” 

“ I crossed on the ice.” 

“Crossed on the ice.?” said everyone present. 

“Yes,” said Eliza, slowly, “ I did. God helping me, I 
crossed on the ice; for they were behind me — right 
behind — and there was no other way! ” 

“ La, missis,” said Cudjoe, “ de ice ’s all in broken-up 
blocks, a swingin’ an’ a teterin’ up an’ down in de 
watah I ” 

“I know it was — I know it! ” said she, wildly; but I 
did it ! I wouldn’t have thought I could — I didn’t think 
I should get over, but I didn’t care ! I could but die, if 
I didn’t. The Lord helped me; nobody knows how 
much the Lord can help ’em till they try,” said Eliza, 
with a flashing eye. 

“ Were you a slave.? ” said Mr. Bird. 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


51 


Yes, sir; I belonged to a man in Kentucky.' 

“Was he unkind to you ? ” 

“ No, sir; he was a good master.” 

“ And was your mistress unkind to you ? ” 

“No, sir — no! my mistress was always good to me.” 
“What could induce you to leave a good home, then, 
and run away, and go through such dangers ? ” 

“ Ma’am,” said Eliza, “have you ever lost a child? ” 
Mr. Bird turned around and walked to the window, and 
Mrs. Bird burst into tears but, recovering her voice, she said: 
“ Why do you ask that ? I have lost a little one.” 

“ Then you will feel for me. I have lost two, one after 
another — left ’em buried there when I came away; and 
I had only this one left. I never slept a night without 
him; he was all I had. He was my comfort and pride 
•day and night, and, ma’am, they were going to take him 
away from me — to sell him — sell him down south, ma’am, 
to go all alone — a baby that had never been away from 
Jiis mother in his life! I couldn’t stand it, ma’am. I 
knew I never should be good for anything if they did, 
and when I knew the papers were signed and he was sold 
I took him and came off in the night, and they chased 
me — the man that bought him and some of mas’r’s folks, 
and they were coming down right behind me and I heard 
’em. I jumped right on to the ice, and how I got across 
J don’t know; but first I knew a man was helping me up 
the bank.” 

The woman did not sob nor weep. She had gone to 
.a place where tears are dry ; but every one around her 
was, in some way characteristic of themselves, showing 
signs of hearty sympathy. 


52 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


The two little boys had thrown themselves into the 
skirts of their mother’s gown, where they were sobbing 
to their hearts’ content ; Mrs. Bird had her face hidden in 
her pocket handkerchief, and old 
Dinah, with tears streaming down 
her black, honest face, was ejacula- 
ting, “Lord have mercy on us!” 
with all the fervor of a camp-meet- 
ing, while old Cudjoe rubbed his 
eyes very hard with his cuffs. 

“And where do you mean to go, 
my good woman ? ” said Mrs. Bird 
when she could speak. 

“To Canada, if only I knew where 
that was. Is it very far off, is 
Canada said she, looking 
up with a simple confiding 
air to Mrs. Bird’s face. 

“Poor thing!” said Mrs. 
Bird involuntarily. 

“ Is ’t a very great way cff?” 
“Much farther than you 
think, poor child!” said 
Mrs. Bird, “but we will try 
to think what can be done 
for you. Here, Dinah, make 
her up a bed in your own 
room, close by the kitchen, 
and I’ll think what to do for 

Where they were sobbing to ^he morning.” 

their hearts’ content. 



UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


53 


Mrs. Bird and her husband had re-entered the parlor. 
She sat down in her little rocking-chair before the fire, 
swaying thoughtfully to and fro. Mr. Bird strode up and 
down the room, grumbling to himself, “Pish! pshaw! 
confounded awkward business ! ” At length, striding up 
to his wife, he said : 

“ I say, wife, she’ll have to get away from here this 
very night. That fellow will be down on the scent 
bright and early tomorrow morning; if ’t was only the 
woman, she could lie quiet till it was over, but that little 
chap can’t be kept still by a troop of horse and foot. I’ll 
warrant me; he’ll bring it all out, popping his head out 
of some window or door. A pretty kettle of fish it would 
be for me, too, to be caught with them both here just 
now! No; they’ll have to be got off tonight.” 

“ Tonight! How is it possible — where to.f^ ” 

“Well, I know pretty well where to,” said the senator, 
beginning to put on his boots. 

Little Mrs. Bird was a discreet woman — a woman who 
never in her life said, “ I told you so ! ” and, on the pres- 
ent occasion, though pretty well aware of the shape her 
husband’s thoughts were taking, she did not meddle with 
them, only sat very quietly in her chair and looked quite 
ready to hear his intentions when he should think proper 
to utter them. 

“You see,” he said, “there’s my old client. Van 
Trompe, has come over from Kentucky and set all his 
slaves free, and he has bought a place seven miles up the 
creek here, back in the woods, where nobody goes unless 
they go on purpose, and it’s a place that isn’t found in 
a hurry. There she’d be safe enough ; but the plague of 


54 


YOUNG FOLKS* 


the thing is, nobody could drive a carriage there tonight 
but 

“Why not? Cudjoe is an excellent driver.” 

“ Ay, ay, but here it is. The creek has to be crossed 
twice, and the second crossing is quite dangerous unless 
one knows it as I do. I have crossed it a hundred times 
on horseback and know exactly the turns to take. And 
so Cudjoe must put in the horses, as quietly as may be, 
about twelve o’clock, and I’ll take her over; and then he 
must carry me on to the next tavern to take the stage for 
Columbus, that comes by about three or four, and so it 
will look as if I had had the carriage only for that.” 

“Your heart is better than your head in this case, 
John,” said the wife, laying her little white band on his. 
“ Could I ever have loved you had I not known you bet- 
ter than you know yourself?” And the little woman 
looked so handsome, with the tears sparkling in her eyes, 
that the senator thought he must be a decidedly clever 
fellow to get such a pretty creature to praise him, and so 
what could he do but walk off soberly to see about the 
carriage ? At the door he stopped a moment, and then 
coming back said, with some hesitation : 

“Mary, I don’t know how you’d feel about it, but 
there’s that drawer full of things — of — of — little Henry’s.”' 
So saying, he turned quickly on his heel and shut the 
door after him. 

His wife opened the little bedroom door adjoining her 
room, and, taking the candle, set it down on the top of a 
bureau there; then from a small recess she took a key 
and put it thoughtfully in the lock of a drawer and made 
a sudden pause, while two boys who, boylike, had fol- 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


55 



lowed close on her heels, 
stood looking at tlieir 
mother. 

Mrs. Bird slowly open- 
ed the drawer. There 
were little coats of many 
a form and pattern, piles of 
aprons, and rows of small 
stockings, and even 
a pair of little shoes, 
worn and rubbed 
at the toes, were 
peeping from the 
folds of a paper. 
There was a toy 
horse and wagon, 
atop, a ball. She 
sat down and, lean- 
ing her head on her 
Mrs. Bird slowly opened the drawer. hands wept till the 

tears fell through her fingers into the drawer; then 
suddenly raising her head she began with nervous haste 
selecting the plainest and most substantial articles and 
gathering them into a bundle. 

“Mamma,” said one of the boys, looking at her in 
amazement, “ are you going to give away those things ? 

She put her arm around his shoulders tenderly. 

“ Dear,” she said, “if our little Henry looks down from 
Heaven he will be glad to have us do this. I could net 
give them to any one who was happy, but I am giving 
them to a mother who is even more sorrowful than I 
am, and I pray God to give his blessing with them.” 


56 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


The tears were running down her cheeks and some 
of them sparkled like dew on the little coat, but her lips 
were smiling sweetly. She turned and took from her 
own wardrobe some warm and serviceable garments for 
Eliza, and sat down to lengthen them. The boys brought 
down a little leather-covered trunk from the attic and 
^helped h^r pack it. . It was long 
past th^ir bed-time, and they 
glanced at the clock and at each 
ether and th^n stole surprised 
peeps at their inother. But she 
let them stay up, because she felt 
that they were having their first 
great lesson in loving helpfulness 
toward the unfortunate. 

The clock struck 1 2 and they 
heard the rumble of wheels on 
the drive outside. That was the 
signal for awakening Eliza and 
the little one. The boys tickled 
him under his brown chin until 
he laughed and opened his eyes, and they 
put on his shoes and stockings and made * 
him ready for his journey. Mrs. Bird was 
assisting Eliza in her preparations, and 
when the trembling girl w^s dressed she 
wrapped -a warm cloak around her> 

“ Come,” called Mr. Bird, who had en- 
tered the room, wearing a big overcoat and 
swinging a lighted lantern, and<^hey 

-^jyes, please God, I am.*’ 



UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


57 


followed him outside where the carriage waited. He 
helped Eliza in, and she took Harry on her lap, 
hiding him under the cloak she wore as if she were afraid 
the stars would see him and betray him to the slave 
catchers. When they were seated and made comfortable, 
Mr. Bird took his place in the carriage. 

“ Good by,” said the boys together as they stood beside 
their mother on the steps. 

Eliza leaned out and clasped Mrs. Bird’s hand. Once, 
twice she tried to speak, but words failed her. But her 
larg(a, dark eyes were fixed with earnest meaning on the 
face of her friend, and she raised her hand and pointed 
upward with a look never to be forgotten. Then she 
covered her face and the carriage door was shut. 

“Git up dar an’ pick up yo’ feet libely,” said old 
Cudjoe to his horses, and they started briskly through 
the gate and out to the road. The carriage lurched and 
creaked and sometimes sank hub-deep into the mud, but 
they went on without accident, for old Cudjoe on the 
driver’s seat knew the story of Eliza’s escape and he 
knew what it meant to be free. 

It was late in the night when, after a rough and danger 
filled journey, the little party reached the last bend of 
the swollen creek and dashed through it and up to the 
gate of a large farm house. Mr. Bird went hurriedly 
up to the door and knocked, and a big, hearty voice from 
within called: 

“ Who are you and what do you want.^ ” 

Senior Bird replied by telling his name and added : 
want To know if you are the man who will shelter 


58 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


and protect a poor woman and her child from the slave 
catchers ? ” 

And Eliza knew that the long night of terror was past 
when she saw the strong and noble face that the opened 
door disclosed and heard the ringing answer: 

“Yes, please God, I am.” 

The broad shouldered farmer set his lamp inside the 
door on the floor and went out to assist Eliza and Harry; 
but he stopped and shook hands with Senator Bird and 
gained the particulars of Eliza’s flight from him. Then 
they all went inside the house, and the fire in the living 
room, smouldering under its night coat of ashes, was 
stirred into a cheerful glow. Mr. Bird and Cudjoe stayed 
only long enough to warm and refresh themselves, for the 
senator wished to keep that night ride a secret from his 
neighbors. But Eliza and her boy had been sent upstairs 
to rest under the care of a sleepy black woman who had 
been called from her slumbers before they left, and before 
the homeward trip began Senator Bird was assured by 
the farmer that he would give the fugitives shelter until 
he could send them safely to a Quaker settlement, where 
they would rest until the Friends could get them to 
Canada. 

Then the senator stepped into the carriage, and the 
horses, that had been unhitched and fed during the stay 
at the house, started for home. 

They reached the Bird place without meeting anyone, 
and at breakfast that morning one of the boys said: 

“ Only you and mother and Tom and Cudjoe and the 
horses and I know about that journey last night, don’t 
we father } ” 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


59 


Mr. Bird smiled and nodded in answer, but the little 
mother raised her eyes and said, with the tender smile 
they loved to see: 

“Yes, dear ones, God knows.” 


CO 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


Chapter VI. 

^ I^HE morning sun looked on sad faces when it shone 
through the window of Uncle Tom’s cabin. The 
little table stood out before the fire, covered with an 
ironing cloth, and a coarse but clean shirt hung on the 
back of a chair by the fire. Aunt Chloe had another 
spread out before her, and she carefully rubbed and 
ironed every fold and hem, now and then putting up her 
hand to wipe away the tears that gathered in her eyes 
and ran down her cheeks. Tom sat with his Bible on 
his knee and his head leaning on his hand, but neither 
spoke. It was yet early, and the children lay asleep, 
side by side, in their trundle-bed. Tom got up and 
walked silently over to look at them. 

“It is the las’ time,” he whispered, and a great sob 
burst from his lips as he laid his face down upon the 
ones on the pillow. 

Aunt Chloe did not answer, but she rubbed the gar- 
ment as smooth as hands could make it, and then, setting 
her iron down, suddenly lifted up her voice and wept: 

“ O, Tom!” she cried, “I kaint bear it — I jes’ kaint! 
I dunno whar yo’se goin’, an’ I dunno how yo’se goin’ 
ter be treated. Nobuddy ever cums back dat goes down 
de river. Dey starves ’em, dat’s what dey do 1 Missis 
says she’s goin’ ter bring yo back ; but I kaint feel no 
faith, nohow 1 ” 

“I’m in de Lord’s hands, Chloe,” said Tom. “Don’t 
forget that. An’ I thank Him that it’s me that’s sold, 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


01 




62 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


an* not yo all an’ de chil’un. Yo’se safe up yere, an’ I 
kin bear whatever load is laid ’pon my shoulders. Let’s 
think on our mercies,” he added, tremulously. 

“ Mercies ! ” said Aunt Chloe, “ I kaint see no mercy 
in it. ’Taint right, ’taint right! an’ mas’r knows it I” 

“ Chloe, don’t talk aginst mas’r,” said Tom. “Why, 
he was put in my arms when he was a little baby, like I 
was tellin’ Mas’r Georgie las’ night. I can see him now, 
laughin’ and crowin’ up at me. I promised old mas’r 
that I’d die fer him ef he needed me to, an’ I reckon I 
kaint say anything now aginst bein’ sold to save his 
property, ’corse not. Besides, mas’r couldn’t help it. 
He’s gwine, sure, ter miss ole Tom.” 

The simple breakfast was now on the table, and the 
children were hurrying to get ready. The dressing 
process did not take long, and they dodged outside to 
plunge their shining black faces into the bucket of rain- 
water which stood under the eaves at the corner of the 
cabin, and then in again to dry the glistening drops 
before the fire. 

“ Dat chickin smells pow’ful good,” said little Pete, 
with a sniff. “ Is we all’s got cump’ny .? ” 

“Hush y o’ mouf I ” whispered Mose; “don’yo know 
nufiin’.f^ Daddy’s done ben sold! ” 

The boys looked on with wide-open eyes. The fear- 
ful words stopped their play. To be sold down the river 
was the greatest harm that could happen to anyone. 

Tom had the baby on his knee and was looking into 
her wee face with fatherly tenderness, when Mrs. Shelby 
entered the door. 

“Uncle Tom,” she began, “I came to — Oh! ” 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN 


63 


she gazed for a moment at the little group, and then 
burst into tears. 

“ Don’t, missis, don’t ! ” Aunt Chloe cried, and then 
they all wept together, the frightened children clinging 
to their father’s hands and pleading: 

“ Don’t go an’ leave we all, daddy, don’t go! ” 

Mrs. Shelby went over to Uncle Tom and laid her 
hand on his. 

“Tom,” she said, “I promise that I will bring you 
back to your home as soon as I can raise the money to 
buy you. I promise, as I am a Christian woman, that I 
will set you free. Till then, trust in God.” 

A rough kick opened the door, and Haley entered. 
He was in a bad mood; his loss of Eliza and a long, 
hard ride back to the Shelby plantation had tired him. 

“ Come, you nigger, get ready I ” he said, and then he 
noticed Mrs. Shelby and became more respectful. Aunt 
Chloe corded up the box, and then, getting up, looked 
at the trader. Her tears seemed suddenly turned to 
sparks of fire. Tom took the box meekly on his shoul- 
der and followed his new master. Chloe and the 
children trailed along beside, and all the servants 
gathered to say good-by. 

“Get in,” said Haley, as they reached the wagon, 
standing harnessed at the door. Tom got in, and then, 
reaching under the seat, the trader drew out a pair of 
heavy iron shackles, which he fastened around Tom’s 
ankles. 

A smothered groan of indignation went around the 
circle, and Mrs. Shelby called from the veranda: 


64 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


“Mr. Haley, please do not do that! It is not neces- 
sary. Tom will not try to get away.” 

But the trader laughed: 

“He won’t get away, whether he tries or not. I’ve 
lost five hundred dollars from this place now. I don t 



I’ve brought you my dollar ! 


“ I’m sorry,” said Tom, “ that Mas’r Georgie happened 
ter be gone.” George had gone to visit on a neighbor- 
ing plantation, and had not heard the news of Tom’s 
sale. “Give my love to Mas’r Georgie,” he said, “an’ 
give my love to Mas’r Arthur. Tell him I’ll love him 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


65 


like I alius did, as long as I live. Tell him not ter feel 
bad ’case he’s done sol’ me. I’d give him my life, ef he 
hadn’t owned it anyway. God bless yo, missis ! Good- 
by, good-by ! ” 

Haley whipped up his horse, and with one last mourn- 
ful look at the great house and the cabin • under the 
bigonia and the rose, Uncle Tom was gone. 

At the blacksmith shop down the road the trader 
stopped to have a pair of handcuffs fitted to the wrists of 
his property, and Tom was sitting very sorrowfully wait- 
ing for them to be fastened on, when there was a sound 
of horses’ feet on the road, and in a moment his young 
Master George was in the wagon, with his arms around 
his old friend’s neck. 

“ O! Mas’r George! this does me good! ” said Tom. 
“ I couldn’t bar to go off without seein’ ye! It does me 
real good, ye can’t tell! ” Here Tom made some move- 
ment of his feet and George’s eyes fell on the fetters. 

“ What a shame ! ” he exclaimed, lifting his hands. 
“I’ll knock that old fellow down — I will! ” 

“No you won’t, Mas’r George, and you must not talk 
so loud. It won’t help me any to anger him.” 

“Well I won’t, then, for your sake; but only to think 
of it — ain’t it a shame They never sent forme, nor 
sent me any word, and if it hadn’t been for Tom Lincoln 
I shouldn’t have heard it. I tell you I blew ’em up well, 
all of ’em, at home ! ” 

“That ar wasn’t right, I’m ’feard, Mas’r George.” 

“Can’t help it! I say it’s a shame! Look here. Uncle 
Tom,” said he, turning his back to the shop and speak- 
ing in a mysterious tone, brought you my dollar 


66 


YOUNG FOLKS^ 


“ O ! I couldn’t think o’ takin’ on’t, Mas’r George, no 
ways in the world! ” said Tom, quite moved. 

“ But you shall take it! ” said George; “look here — I 
told Aunt Chloe I’d do it, and she advised me just to 
make a hole in it, and put a string through, so you could 
hang it round your neck and keep it out of sight, or this 
mean scamp would take it away. I tell ye, Tom, I want 
to blow him up ! It would do me good! ” 

“No, don’t, Mas’r George; for it won’t do me any 
good! ” 

“Well, I won’t for your sake,” said George, busily 
tying his dollar round Tom’s neck; “but there now, but- 
ton your coat tight over it and keep it, and remember 
every time you see it that I’ll come down after you and 
bring you back. Aunt Chloe and I have been talking 
about it. I told her not to fear; I’ll see to it, and I’ll 
tease father’s life out if he don’t do it.” 

“ O, Mas’r George, ye mustn’t talk so ’bout yer own 
father ! ” 

“Lor, Uncle Tom, I don’t mean anything bad.” 

“And now, Mas’r George,” said Tom, “ye must be a 
good boy; ’member how many hearts is sot on ye. 
Al’ays keep close to your mother. Don’t be gettin’ into 
any of them foolish ways boys has of gettin’ too big to 
mind their mothers. Tell ye what, Mas’r George, the 
Lord gives a good many things twice over; but he don’t 
give ye a mother but once. So now you hold on to her, 
and grow up and be a comfort to her, thar’s my own good 
boy — you will now, won’t ye ? ” 

“Yes, I will. Uncle Tom,” said George, seriously. 

“And be careful of yer speaking, Mas’r George. 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


67 


Young boys, when they comes to your age, is willful 
sometimes — it’s natur they should be. But real gentle- 
men, such as I hopes you’ll be, never lets fall no words 
that isn’t ’spectful to thar parents. Ye ain’t ’fended, 
Mas’r George ? ” 

“No, indeed. Uncle Tom; you always did give me 
good advice.” 

“I’s older, ye know,” said Tom, stroking the boy’s fine 
curly head with his large, strong hand, but speaking in 
a voice as tender as a woman’s, “ and I sees all that’s 
bound up in you. O, Mas’r George, you has everything 
— I’ranin’, privileges, readin’, writin’ — and you’ll grow up 
to be a great, learned, good man, and all the people on 
the place, and your mother and father ’ll be so proud 
on ye! Be a good mas’r, like your father; and be a 
Christian, like your mother. ’Member your Creator in 
the days o’ your youth, Mas’r George.” 

“I’ll be real good. Uncle Tom, I tell you,” said 
George. “ I’m going to be a first-rater ; and don’t you 
be discouraged. I’ll have you back to the place yet. 
As I told Aunt Chloe this morning. I’ll build your house 
all over, and you shall have a room for a parlor with a 
carpet on it, when I’m a man. O, you’ll have good 
times yet I ” 

Haley now came to the door with the handcuffs in 
his hands. 

“ Look here now, mister,” said George, with an air of 
great superiority, as he got out, “ I shall let father and 
mother know how you treat Uncle Tom! ” 

“You’re welcome,” said the trader. 

“ I should think you’d be ashamed to spend all your 


68 


YOUNG FOLKS^ 


life buying men and women and chaining them like cat- 
tle. I should think you’d feel mean ! ” said George. 

“So long as your grand folks wants to buy men and 
women, I’m as good as they is,” said Haley; “ ’tain’t any 
meaner sellin’ on ’em than ’tis buyin’.” 

‘ I’ll never do either when I’m a man,” said George. 

“Well, good-by, Uncle Tom; keep a stiff upper lip,”' 
he said. 

“Good-by, Mas’r George,” said Tom, looking fondly 
and admiringly at him. “God Almighty bless you! 
Ah! Kentucky hain’t got many like you.” Away he 
went, and Tom looked till the clatter of his horse’s heels 
died away, the last sound or sight of his home. But 
over his heart there seemed to be a warm spot where 
those young hands had placed that precious ' dollar.. 
Tom put up his hand and held it close to his heart. 


l/kCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


69 


Chapter VII. 

QUIET scene now rises before us. A large, 
roomy, neatly painted kitchen, its yellow floor 
glossy and smooth, and without a particle of dust; a 
neat, well-blacked cooking stove; rows of shining tin, 
suggestive of good things to the appetite ; glossy green 
wood chairs, old and firm; a small flag-bottomed rock- 
ing-chair, with a patchwork cushion in it, and a larger 
sized one, motherly and old — a real comfortable, per- 
suasive old chair — and worth, in the way of honest 
comfort, a dozen of your plush drawing-room gentry; 
and in the chair, gently swaying back and forward, her 
eyes bent on some fine sewing, sat our old friend Eliza. 
Yes, there she is, paler and thinner than in her Ken- 
tucky home, with a world of quiet sorrow lying under 
her long eyelashes and marking the outline of her gentle 
m.outh. It was plain to see how old and firm the girlish 
heart had grown under the discipline of heavy sorrow; 
and when her large dark eyes were raised to follow the 
gambols of her little Harry, who was playing, like some 
tropical butterfly, hither and thither over the floor, she 
showed a depth of firmness and steady resolve that was 
never there in her earlier and happier days. 

By her side sat a woman with a bright tin pan in her 
lap, into which she was carefully sorting some dried 
peaches. She might be fifty-five or sixty ; but her’s was 
one of those faces that time seems to touch only to 


70 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


brighten and adorn. The snowy lisse crape cap, made 
after the straight Quaker pattern ; the plain white muslin 
handkerchief lying in placid folds across her bosom ; the 
drab shawl and dress, showed at once the community to 
which she belonged. Her face was round ancTrosy, with 
a healthful downy softness, suggestive of a ripe peach. 
Her hair, partially silvered, was parted smoothly back 
from a placid forehead, on which time had written no 
inscription, except peace on earth, good will to men, 
and beneath shone a large pair of clear, honest, loving 
brown eyes ; you only needed to look straight into them 
to feel that you saw to the bottom of a heart as good 
and true as ever throbbed in woman’s bosom. 

“And so thee still thinks of going to Canada, Eliza ? 
she said, as she was quietly looking over her peaches. 

“Yes, ma’am,” said Eliza, firmly. “ I must go onward. 
I dare not stop.” 

“And what ’ll thee do when thee gets there ? Thee 
must think about that, my daughter.” 

“ My daughter” came naturally from the lips of Rachel 
Halliday; for hers was just the face and form that made 
“mother” seem the most natural word in the world. 

Eliza’s hands trembled, and some tears fell on her fine 
work ; but she answered, firmly : 

“ I shall do — anything I can find. I hope I can find 
something.” 

“ Thee knows thee can stay here as long as thee 
pleases,” said Rachel. 

“O, thank you,” said Eliza; “but” — she pointed to 
Harry — “I can’t sleep nights; I can’t rest. Last night 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


71 


I dreamed I saw that man coming into the yard,” she 
said, shuddering. 

“Poor child!” said Rachel, wiping her eyes; “but 
thee mustn’t feel so. The Lord hath ordered it so that 
never hath a fugitive been stolen from our village. I 
trust thine will not be the first.” 



By her side sat a woman with a bright tin pan in her lap. 

The door here opened, and a little, short, round woman 
stood at the threshold, with a cheery, blooming face, like 
a ripe apple. She was dressed, like Rachel, in sober gray, 
with the muslin folded neatly across her round, plump 
little chest. 


72 


YOUNG FOLKS* 


Ruth Stedman/’said Rachel, coming joyfully forward; 
"‘how is thee, Ruth?”, she said, heartily taking both her 
hands. 

“ Nicely,” said Ruth, taking off her little drab bonnet, 
and dusting it with her handkerchief, displaying, as she 
did so, a round little head, on which the Quaker cap sat 
with a sort of jaunty air, despite all the stroking and pat- 
ting of the small fat hands which were busily applied in 
arranging it. Certain stray locks of decidedly curly 
hair, too, had escaped here and there, and had to be 
coaxed and cajoled into their place again; and then 
the newcomer, who might have been five-and-twenty, 
turned from the small looking-glass, before 
which she had been making these arrange- 
ments, and looked well pleased — as most peo- 
ple who looked at her might have been — ^for 
she was decidedly a wholesome, whole-hearted, 
chirruping little woman, as ever 
gladdened a man’s heart withal 
“ Ruth, this iriend is Eliza 
Harris ; and this is the little boy 
I told thee of.” 

“ I am glad to see thee, Eliza 
— very,” said Ruth, shaking 
hands, as if Eliza were an old 
friend she had long been expeet- 
ing; “and this is thy dear boy 
— I brought a cake for him,” 
she said, holding out a little 
heart to the boy, who came up, 
gazing through his curls, and 
accepted it shyly. 



UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


73 


“Where’s thy baby, Ruth.?” said Rachel. 

“ O, he’s coming; but thy Mary caught him as I came 
in, and ran off with him to the barn, to show him to the 
children. 

At this moment the door opened, and Mary, an honest, 
rosy-looking girl, with large brown eyes, like her mother’s, 
came in with the baby. 

“Ah! ha! ” said Rachel, coming up and taking the 
great white, fat fellow in her arms; “how good he looks, 
and how he does grow ! ” 

“To be sure he does,” said little bustling Ruth, as 
she took the child and began taking off a little blue silk 
hood and various layers and wrappers of outer garments; 
and having given a twitch here and a pull there, and 
kissed him heartily, she set him on the floor to collect 
his thoughts. Baby seemed quite used to this mode of 
proceeding, for he put his thumb in his mouth, while the 
mother seated herself, and taking out a long stocking of 
mixed blue and white yarn, began to knit with briskness. 

Simeon Halliday, a tall, straight, muscular man, in 
drab coat and trousers, and broad-brimmed hat, now 
entered. 

“ How is thee, Ruth.?” he said, warmly, as he spread 
his broad open hand for her little fat palm ; “ and how is 
John.?” 

“ O! John is well, and all the rest of our folks,” said 
Ruth, cheerily. 

“Any news, father.?” said Rachel, as she was putting 
her biscuits into the oven. 

“ Peter Stebbins told me that they should be along pres- 


74 


YOUNG FOLKS* 


ently with friends'' said Simeon, significantly, as he was 
washing his hands at a neat sink, on a little back porch. 

“Indeed!” said Rachel, looking thoughtfully, and 
glancing at Eliza. 

“ Did thee say thy name was Harris.^ ” said Simeon to 
Eliza, as he re-entered. 

Rachel glanced quickly at her husband, as Eliza 
tremulously answered “ yes.” 

“Mother,” said Simeon, standing on the porch, and 
calling Rachel out. 

“What does thee want, father.? ” said Rachel, rubbing 
her floury hands, as she went out on the porch. 

“ This child’s husband is in the settlement, and will be 
here soon,” said Simeon. 

“Now, thee doesn’t say that, father.?” said Rachel, 
all her face radiant with joy. 

“ It’s really true. Peter was down yesterday, with the 
wagon, to the other stand, and there he found an old 
woman and two men ; and one said his name was George 
Harris; and, from what he told of his history, I am cer- 
tain who he is. He is a bright, likely fellow, too.” 

“ Shall we tell her now .? ” said Simeon. 

“ Let’s tell Ruth,” said Rachel. “ Here, Ruth — come 
here.” 

Ruth laid down her knitting-work, and was on the 
back porch in a moment. 

“ Ruth, what does thee think .? ” said Rachel. “ Father 
says Eliza’s husband is in the last company, and will be 
here shortly.” 

A burst of joy from the little Quakeress interrupted 
the speech. She gave such a bound from the floor, as 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


75 " 


she clapped her little hands, that two stray curls fell from 
under her Quaker cap, and lay brightly on her white 
neckerchief. 

“ Hush thee, dear! ” said Rachel, gently; “hush, Ruth! 
Tell us, shall we tell her now.f^ ” 

“ Now ! to be sure — this very minute. Why, now, sup- 
pose ’t was my John, how should I feel.*^ Do tell her 
right off.” 

“ Thee uses thyself only to learn how to love thy 
neighbor, Ruth,” said Simeon, looking, with a beaming 
face, on Ruth. 

“To be sure. Isn’t it what we are made for.^^ If I 
didn’t love John and the baby, I should not know how to 
feel for her. Come, now, do tell her — do ! ” and she laid 
her hands persuasively on Rachel’s arm. “ Take her 
into thy bedroom, there, and let me fry the chicken while 
thee does it.” 

Rachel came out into the kitchen, where Eliza was 
sewing, and opening the door of a small bedroom, said 
gently, “Come in here with me, my daughter; I have 
news to tell thee.” 

The blood flushed in Eliza’s pale face; she rose, 
trembling with nervous anxiety, and looked toward her 
boy. 

“ No, no,” said little Ruth, darting up, and seizing her 
hands. “ Never thee fear; it’s good news, Eliza — go in, 
go in ! ” And she gently pushed her to the door, which 
closed after her; and then, turning round, she caught 
little Harry in her arms, and began kissing him. 

“ Thee’ll see thy father, little one. Does thee know it ? 


76 


YOUNG FOLKS* 


Thy father is coming,” she said, over and over again, as 
the boy looked wonderingly at her. 

Meanwhile, within the door, another scene was going 
on. Rachel Halliday drew Eliza toward her, and said, 
“ The Lord hath had mercy on thee, daughter ; thy hus- 
band hath escaped from the house of bondage.” 

The blood flushed to Eliza’s cheek in a sudden glow, 
and went back to her heart with as sudden a rush. She 
sat down, pale and faint. 

“ Have courage, child,” said Rachel, laying her 
hand on her head. “ He is among 
friends, who will bring him here 
soon.” 

“Soon!” Eliza repeated, 
“ soon I ” The words lost all 
meaning to her; her head was 
dreamy and confused ; all was mist 
for a moment. 

But there was a sound of steps 
on the walk outside and a light 
knock at the door; and in a mo- 
ment Eliza was in her husband’s 
arms, and his tears of joy were 
falling on her face. 

They were all seated at the 
breakfast table the next morning, 
and although it was the first time 
that George Harris had ever sat 
at a white man’s table, he behaved 
with the gentleness of those 
around him. 


Thee *11 see thy 
father, little one.” 



UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


V7 



In a moment Eliza was in her husband’s arms. 


IB 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


“ Father,” said little Simeon, as he buttered his cakes, 
“ what if thee should get found out again ? ” 

“ I should pay my fine,” answered his father quietly. 
“Yes, but what if they put thee in prison? ” 

“ Couldn’t thee and mother manage the farm ? ” said 
Simeon, smiling. “ Mother can do any thing,” said the 
boy, “ but isn’t it a shame to make such laws ? I just hate 
those old slave-holders, any way.” 

“ I hope, my good sir,” said George, “ that you are not 
getting into danger on our account! ” 

“ Friend George, we are sent into the world to help and 
be of service to one another. It is not for thee but for 
God we do it. And now thee must keep quiet to-day, 
and to-night, at lo o’clock, Phineas Fletcher will carry 
thee and Eliza and thy company on to the next stand. 
The pursuers are after thee; we must not delay.” 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


Id 


Chapter VIII. 

A MONG the passengers on the boat which bore Uncle 
Tom and the rest of trader Haley’s slave gang down 
the river to New Orleans was a gentleman by the name 
of St. Clare and his little six-year-old daughter. This 
little golden-haired girl flitted about the decks of the 
Mississippi steamer like a fairy. Now smiling over a bale 
of cotton at some poor slave ; now laying her hands, cool 
and white as lilies, on some-dark and throbbing brow ; now 
listening to the songs the negroes sang in the evenings. 

She was slight and fair and her eyes were large and 
blue. To the sad hearts around her she seemed an 
angel of kindness and beauty. Her father let her trip 
around where she pleased on the decks, and she liked to 
perch, like a bright-winged bird, on some box or bale near 
where Tom was sitting, and see him make her little bas- 
kets out of cherry stones, and odd whistles and jumping 
figures out of elder pith. 

“ What’s little missy’s name.^ ” said Tom one day. 

“ Evangeline St. Clare,’’ the child answered, “but every 
one calls me just Eva. What’s your name ? ” 

“ My name ’s Tom,” he answered; “the little chillun 
used fer ter call me Uncle Tom back thar in ole Kentuck.” 

“ Then I’ll call you Uncle Tom, because you see I like 
you. Where are you going, Uncle Tom.?” 

“ I dun no. Miss Eva.” 

“You don’t know.? ” 


80 


YOUNG FOLKS* 


“No, Miss Eva; I’se gwine ter be sol’ ter some one. 
I dun no who.” 

“ My papa shall buy you,” said the child, springing up 
and clasping her hands. “My papa shall buy you; I’ll 
ask him now. And then you will be my Uncle Tom.” 
She jumped up and turned to run away, but stopped, see- 
ing the tears in Tom’s honest eyes. “You will never 
cry any more if my papa buys you,” she said. “ Good- 
by until I come back.” 



UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


81 


Tom looked at his great black hand that the white 
dress had brushed. 

“ Lord bless that little lamb,” he whispered. “ Bless 
that little lamb.” 

The boat stopped at a small landing to take on cotton, 
and Tom went below to help put the cargo in place, as 
he had been found to be strong and reliable, and his 
master had hired him out to take the place of one of 
the crew who was sick. He was standing on the lower 
deck as the boat moved out and something white flashed 
in front of his face and into the water. 

“ St. Clare’s child ! ” some one cried. And the next mo- 
ment Tom was in the water, keeping between the little 
one and the wheel that would otherwise have caught and 
crushed her, and managing to catch her in his strong 
arms as she came to the surface. A hundred hands 
were stretched to take the dripping little figure that 
Tom handed up, and in a few moments more she was 
safe on her father’s breast and asking for Tom. “ I was 
just going to tell you I wanted him for my playmate, 
when I fell in the water,” she explained. “And you will 
buy him for me, won’t you, papa.^ ” She looked up con- 
fidently from her place in his arms, and he answered : 
“Yes, little one, if you wish to have him. Of course I 
will. Are you going to use him for a rattle-box or a 
rocking-horse ? ” 

“ Papa,” she whispered, “ he’s my friend.” 

Mr. St. Clare laughed. “ Y our friend ? W ell, well, what 
would your mother say to that ? But I reckon that he will 
be a faithful one. I do not forget that he saved my little 
girl’s life to-day.” 


82 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 



The days passed and the long ride 
was nearly over, when, one morning, Mr. 

St. Clare found Tom among the cotton 
bales with Eva beside him listening to a 'T 
story of Br’er Rabbit and Missy Cotton-tail. 

“ Dey lived in a patch o’ corn right back o’ 
my cabin,” he said ; “an’ one night — now you 
all mustn’t b’lieve dis is true, missy, will yo ? ” 

“No; go on, go on. Uncle Tom! ” 

“ Wull, I was a sitting thar, an’ I see thet li’l Cotton-tail 
scamperin’ up an’ down, an’ I sez: ‘ Howdy, Miss Bunny, is 
yo folks all welLi^ ’ Den she jumped furrad, three springs, 
an’ set an’ waited, lookin’ like she was studyin’ my face. 
Den she come on three springs mo’, an’ sez she: ‘Oh, 
Uncle Tom, Mr. Rabbit ’s hurt hissef by stepping in a trap 
dat yo mas’r lef’ roun’ kerless, an’ I aint got no med’cine 
in my house.’ 

“ I sez ter her: ‘All right. Miss Cotton- 
tail, I’ll fetch yo some lin’ment ef yo’ll 
wait a spell, ’twell I find whar Chloe’s got 
hern sto’ed away.’ So I hunted an’ I 
hunted, an’ bime by I foun’ it, an’ den 
we started for de field, li’l Miss Bunny 
runnin’ahaid a ways an’ den lookin’ back 
ter see ef I ’se foolin’ huh. But we went 
along an’ thar set Mr. Rabbit with masr’s 
trap hitched ter his leg. 

“ He looked mighty s’oicious at me, 
an I sez: 

“ Sense me, Br’er Rabbit, I jes dropped 
roun ter see ef ye done got through with 
mas’rs fox trap ? Ef yo is, I ’ll tote it 
along home. 



UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


83 



“St. Clare’s child!” some one cried. 


84 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


“Mister Rabbit spoke up perlite: ‘Sut’nly, sah,’ he 
sez, ‘ Ise much ’bleeged for de use of it. Kin I trouble 
yo ter help yo sef I’se feelin’ sort o porely dis evenin.’ 
He stuck out his feet an’ I took off de trap; an’ li’l Miss 
Cotton-tail she drapped me a cutsy, so ! ‘ W ull, good by^ 

Uncle Tom,’ she sez, ‘Ise gwine ter fetch yo linment 
home t’rectly,’ she sez. No hurry, missy, sez I, good by.”^ 

Mr. St. Clare stepped forward with a laugh, and put 
his finger carelessly under Tom’s chin. 

“Look up, Tom,” he said, “and see how you like your 
new master.” 

Eva gave a shout of delight and Tom’s heart leaped 
with thankfulness as he said : 

“God bless yo, mas’r; I will serve yo an’ little missy 
with all my strength and heart.” 

Eva put her hand on his shoulder : “ Tell me another 
story. Uncle Tom,” she said. 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


85 


Chapter IX. 


jy/JISS OPHELIA ST. CLARE had gone down from 
Vermont to manage her cousin’s household affairs, 
as his wife, the mother of little Eva, was an invalid. 

Whoever has traveled in New England will remember, 
in some cool village, a large well kept farm house where 
everything is in its place and shining clean; 
where there is a certain time for every 
task, and disorder and confusion are never 
known. Miss Ophelia left such a home 
of system and order to go and preside 
over a hundred negro servants, who were 
all helter-skelter and in each other’s 
way, to the great confusion of house- 
hold affairs generally. But the fine, 
tall New Englander was not to be 
discouraged from what she consid- 
ered her path of duty. Besides, she 
loved Eva and longed to make up to 
her for the mother love she missed in 
the cold and selfish Mrs. St. Clare. 

The plantation was one of the largest 
and most beautiful estates in Louis 
iana. The house, a splendid old 
mansion, half colonial, half French 
in architecture, was the scene 
of much gayety in the winters, and 
the servants were happy under 



Miss Ophelia. 


86 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


Augustine St. Clare’s careless, kindly rule. Mrs. St. Clare 
was neither so careless or so kind, but she was too indo- 
lent to attend to the management of the house, so Miss 
Ophelia’s work began, and old Dinah’s soul was filled 
with wrath when she made her first tour through the 
kitchen, which was a large apartment, with a brick floor 
and a great fire-place stretching along one whole side of 
the room. Aunt Dinah did not rise, but sat on the floor 
and smoked her short pipe in silence. 

Miss Ophelia commenced opening a set of drawers.. 
“ What is this drawer for } ” she asked. 

“ It’s handy for most anything, missis,” said Dinah. So 
it appeared to be. From the variety it contained, 
Miss Ophelia pulled out, first, a fine damask table- 
cloth, which had been used to envelop raw meat. 
“What this, Dinah.? You don’t wrap up meat 
in your mistress* best tablecloths ? ” 

“ O Ian, missis, no ; the towels was 
all a missin’, so I jest did it. I laid 
out to wash that ar; that’s why I put 
it than” 

“ Shif’less ! ” said Miss Ophelia ta 
\ herself, proceeding to tumble over the 
drawer, where she found a nutmeg- 
grater and two or three nutmegs, a 
Methodist hymn-book, a couple of 
soiled Madras handkerchiefs, some 
yarn and knitting-work, a paper of to- 
bacco and a pipe, a few crackers, one or 
two gilded china-saucers with some 
pomade in them, one or two thin old 



Aunt Dinah. 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


87 


shoes, a piece of flannel carefully pinned up enclosing 
some small white onions, several damask table-napkins, 
some coarse crash towels, some twine and darning-needles, 
and several broken papers, from which sweet herbs were 
sifting into the drawer. 

“Where do you keep your nutmegs, Dinah.?” said 
Miss Ophelia, with the air of one who prayed for 
patience. 

“ Most anywhar, missis ; there’s some in that cracked 
teacup up there, and there’s some over in that ar cup- 
board.” 

“ Here are some in the grater,” said Miss Ophelia, 
holding them up. 

“ Laws, yes, I put ’em there this morning — I likes to 
keep my things handy,” said Dinah. 

“What’s this.?” said Miss Ophelia, holding up the 
saucer of pomade. 

“ Laws, it’s my har grease — I put it thar to have it 
handy.” 

“ Do you use your mistress’ best saucers for that .? ” 

“ Law, it was cause I was driv, and in sich a hurry — I 
was gwine to change it this very day.” 

“ Here are two damask table-napkins.” 

“ Them table-napkins I put thar to get ’em washed 
out some day.” 

“ Don’t you have some place here on purpose for 
things to be washed .? ” 

“ Well, Mas’r St. Clare got dat ar chest, he said, for 
dat; but I likes to mix up biscuit and hev my things on it 
some days, and then it ain’t handy to be liftin’ up the lid.” 


88 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


“ Why don’t you mix your biscuits on the pastry-table, 
there ? ” 

“ Law, missis, it gets so full of dishes, and one thing 
and another, der ain’t no room, noways.” 

“ But you should wash your dishes, and clear them 
away.” 

“ Wash my dishes! ” said Dinah, in a high key, as her 
wrath began to rise over her habitual respect of manner ; 
“ what does ladies know ’bout work, I want to know } 
When’d mas’r ever get his dinner, if I was to spend all 
my time a washin’ and puttin’ up dishes? Miss Marie 
never telled me so, nohow.” 

“Well, here are these onions.” 

“ Laws, yes 1 ” said Dinah, “ thar is whar I put ’em, 
now. I couldn’t ’member. Them’s particular onions I 
was savin’ for dis yer very stew. I’d forgot they was in 
dat ar old flannel.” 

Miss Ophelia lifted out the sifting papers of sweet 
herbs. 

“ I wish missis wouldn’t touch dem ar. I likes to keep 
my things where I knows whar to go to ’em,” said Dinah, 
rather decidedly. 

“ But you don’t want these holes in the papers.” 

“ Them’s handy for siftin’ on’t out,” said Dinah. 

“ But you see it spills all over the drawer.” 

“ Laws, yes 1 if missis will go a tumblin’ things all up 
so, it will. Missis has spilt lots dat ar way,” said Dinah, 
coming uneasily to the drawers. “ If missis only will 
go upstars till my clarin’ up time comes. I’ll have every- 
thing right ; but I can’t do nothin’ when ladies is round. 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


89 



Topsy. 



90 


YOUNG FOLKS* 


a henderin’. You, Sam, don’t you gib the baby dat ar 
sugar-bowl ! I’ll crack ye over, if ye don’t mind ! ” 

“ I’m going through the kitchen, to put everything in 
order, once, Dinah ; and then I’ll expect you to keep it so.’" 
Miss Ophelia went to work while Topsy looked on, 
grinning. 

Topsy was one of the blackest, funniest specimens of 
her race, and when Mr. St. Clare, half in pity for the child, 
bought her of her cruel owners and presented her to Miss 
Ophelia, that good woman was dumb with amazement. 
The child was dressed in a coffee sack; her hair was 
braided in little tails which stuck out like spikes around 
her head, and her wrinkled, old, odd little face was as 
solemn as an owl’s, except for the twinkling, mischief- 
filled eyes. There was something goblin-like in her looks 
and ways, and Mr. St. Clare smiled at the look of terror 
with which his cousin regarded her as he said: 

“ Topsy, this is your new mistress. Are you going to 
be a good girl ? ” 

“Yes, mas’r,” said Topsy, her wicked eyes shining. 

“Now, Augustine,” said Miss Ophelia, “what is the 
use of bringing that child here ? The house is full of 
little black plagues now. I can’t set down my foot in 
the kitchen without stepping on one. They are over- 
head, on the stairs, and swarming up everywhere. What 
am I to do with this girl ? ” 

“ I think I should try having her washed, to begin with,’" 
said St. Clare. “ Some of that black will come off. And 
then I would send out and get her a more complete cos- 
tume. I observe some lack in her present make-up. 
After that — ^well, you always wanted to teach a negro 
child the right way to live. Here’s the material. You 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


91 


can try your hand, that strong New England hand, on it. 
But I shall watch the results.” 

Miss Ophelia suspected that he was teasing her, but she 
started off to the kitchen with Topsy, and when the super- 
fluous black had been washed away by Dinah’s vigorous 
hands, the spikes of hair had fallen under the shears, and 
the child was clothed for the first time in her life in a 
decent dress. Miss Ophelia began to question her. 

“ How old are you, Topsy? ” she asked. 

“ I dunno, missy,” she answered with a grin that showed 
two shining rows of teeth. 

“Don’t know? Didn’t anyone ever tell you? Who 
was your mother ? ” 

“ Neber had no mudder.” 

“Never had a mother? ” Miss Ophelia stared in sur- 
prise and disapproval. “ What do you mean ? Where 
were you born ? ” 

“ Neber was born.” 

“ Topsy, I am not playing with you. I want you to tell 
me where you were born and who your father and mother 
were. Now answer me quickly.” 

“ I neber was born. Neber had no fadder, an’ I neber 
had no mudder. I was raised by a specumlater fur market 
wif lots o’ little niggers. Ole Aunt Sue brung me up by 
hand.” 

The child was evidently sincere, and Jane, the chamber- 
maid, who was present, added : 

“ La, missis, dat’s all true. Speculators buys ’em when 
dey’s little an* gets ’em raised for market.” 

“ How long have you lived with your master and 
mistress, Topsy?” 


92 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


“ I dunno, missis,” said Topsy, and then in a moment 
she was down on the floor walking on her hands, with 
her black feet in the air. She made the circle once 
around, before her astonished and horrified mistress 
caught breath enough to exclaim : 

“Get up, Topsy, you wretched child, and tell me — Do 
you know who made you? ” 

“No, mom. Nobuddy neber made me. I ’spect I 
growed. Nobuddy done tuk de trouble ter make me, as 
I knows.” 

Miss Ophelia felt that she was not making much prog- 

“ Do you know how to sew ? ” she 
asked. 

“No, mom. I dunno how ter sew.” 
“ W hat did you do for your master 
and mistress ? ” 

“ Nuffin dat I could help.” 

“Were they good to you ? ” 

“ Yessum. Dey licked me free er four 
times er day ter make me good, but I ain’t 

I black eyes glittered with mis- 
as she struck up in a shrill voice : 

O I’se a mis’ble sinneh, yes I is ; 
O I’se a mis’ble sinneh. 

An I kaint hab no dinneh. 

Yes I is!” 

She kept time to this with 
"her feet and hands, knocking 


Walking on her hands, with her black 
feet in the air. 



UNCLE TOM’S CABIN 


93 


her knees together in a wild, fantastic sort of time, and 
spinning around, clapping her hands, and then suddenly 
turning somersaults around the room, she came up stand- 
ing with a prolonged closing note as loud as a steam- 
engine’s whistle. 

Poor Miss Ophelia shuddered when she thought that 
she was the owner of this monkey child and was expected 
to make a Christian out of her, and her voice was very 
weak when she said : 

“Come up into my room with me, Topsy. 

“ Is yo gwine ter whip me ? Shall I fetch yo in a hick’ry 
ter tan me good ? ” 

“ No, no,” the lady almost cried in her nervousness, 
“ I am not going to whip you. I never want to whip you. 
I am going to teach you how to make my bed.” 

Topsy looked at her from the corner of a suspicious eye. 

“ Wullum,” she said. 

They went up to Miss Ophelia’s room together. No 
one could tell the sacrifice the stern Vermont house- 
keeper was making when she allowed the wild little black 
girl to touch her bed. 

“ Now, Topsy,” she said kindly, “look here, this is the 
hem of the sheet and this is the right side, this the 
wrong — will you remember ? ” 

“ Yessum,” said Topsy with a sigh. 

“Well now, the under sheet you must bring over the 
bolster, so — and tuck it clear down under the mattress, 
nice and smooth, so. Do you see ? ” 

“Yessum, I sees.” 

“ But the upper sheet must be brought down in this 


94 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


way, firm and smooth, and tucked under at the foot, so, 
the narrow hem at the lower end. Do you see ? ” 

“ Yessum,” said Topsy, snatching a ribbon and a pair 
of gloves from the dressing table and hiding them in her 
sleeves while Miss Ophelia’s back was turned ; “ yessum, 
I sees.” 

“ That’s a nice, bright girl. O, we shall make a fine 
little maid of you, I am sure! Now pull all the clothes 
off and spread them on again, as I told you.” 

Topsy went through the exercise completely to Miss 
Ophelia’s satisfaction; smoothing ‘the sheets, patting 
out each wrinkle, and behaving so well that her mistress 
was delighted. But suddenly Miss Ophelia caught sight 
of a fluttering fragment of ribbon hanging from Topsy ’s 
sleeve, and in a nfioment she had the child by the 
shoulder. 

“What is this, you wicked, wicked girl.? You have 
been stealing.” 

The ribbon was pulled out of Topsy ’s own sleeve, but 
she looked at it with much surprise and said: 

“ For de Ian’ sakes, hoccum Miss Feely’s rib’n in my 
sleeve ? Dat ’s the curisist ting I ebber see.” 

“Topsy, don’t tell a lie. You stole that ribbon, and 
you know it.” 

“Who.? Me? No, mom, I neber stole it. I neber 
laid my eyes on it twell jes’ dis minit.” 

“ Topsy! ” Miss Ophelia shook her so hard that the 
gloves fell from the other sleeve onto the floor. Miss 
Ophelia could not speak, but Topsy grinned cheerfully. 

“ I done stole dem gloves,” she admitted, “but I hope ter 
neber see de back o’ my neck agin, ef I stole dat ar rib’n.” 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


95 


Miss Ophelia sat down, and looked at her charge 
sternly over the tops of her glasses. 

“ Topsy,” she said, “ tell me all. I won’t whip you if 
you tell me the truth. What more have you taken ? ” 



What is this, you wicked girl ? ” 


“ Wullum, I done tuk Miss Eva’s red beads dat she 
w’ars on huh neck, an’ I tuk Rosa’s yerrings dat jingled 
in huh ears, an’ I — ” 



96 


YOUNG FOLKS* 


“ Topsy, you naughty girl, run and get those things 
and everything else that you have stolen, and bring them 
here.” 

“ Lan a goodness. Miss Feely, I kaint do dat, no how.” 

“ Get them this minute ! Start ! ” 

“ Why, Miss Feely, I done bu’nt ’em all up.” 

“You have burnt them up! O, what shall I do with 
you ? What did you do that for ? ” 

“’Case I’s so wicked, I ’spects. I’se moughty wicked, 
I is. ’Sides I’m all ober my las’ lickin’. Why don’ yo 
all whip me, Miss Feely ? ” 

Just at that moment Eva came innocently into the 
room, with the identical coral necklace on her neck. 

“ Why, Eva, where did you get your necklace ? ” said 
Miss Ophelia. 

“Get it.f^ Why I’ve had it on all day,” said Eva. 

“ Did you have it on yesterday ? ” 

“Yes; and what is funny, aunty, I had it on all night. 
I forgot to take it off when I went to bed.” 

Miss Ophelia looked perfectly bewildered; the more 
so, as Rosa, at that instant, came into the room, with a 
basket of newly-ironed linen poised on her head, and the 
coral ear-drops shaking in her ears I 

“ I’m sure I can’t tell anything what to do with such a 
child I ” she said in despair. “ What in the world did you 
tell me you took those things for, Topsy ” 

“ Why, missis said I must ’fess, and I couldn’t think of 
nuffin’ else to ’fess,” said Topsy, rubbing her eyes. 

“ But, of course, I didn’t want you to confess things 
you didn’t do,” said Miss Ophelia; “that’s telling a lie 
just as much as the other.” 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


97 


“ Laws, now, is it ? ” said Topsy with an air of inno- 
cent wonder. 

“ La, there ain’t any such thing as truth in that limb,” 
said Rosa, looking indignantly at Topsy. “If I was 
Mas’r St. Clare, I’d whip her, I would — I’d let her 
catch it ! ” 

“ No, no, Rosa,” said Eva, with an air of command, 
which the child could assume at times; “you musn’t talk 
so, Rosa ; I can’t bear to hear it.” 

“ La sakes ! Miss Eva, you’s so good, you don’t know 
nothing how to get along with niggers. There’s no way 
but to whip ’em, I tell ye.” 

“ Rosa ! ” said Eva, “ hush ! Don’t you say another 
word of that sort ! ” and the eye of the child flashed, and 
her cheek deepened its color. 

Rosa was cowed in a moment. 

Eva stood looking at Topsy. 

“ Poor Topsy, why need you steal You’re going to 
be taken good care of now. I’m sure I’d rather give 
you anything of mine than have you steal it.” 

It was the first word of kindness the child had ever 
heard in her life ; and the sweet tone and manner struck 
strangely on the wild, rude heart, and a sparkle of some- 
thing like a tear shone in the keen, round, glittering eye; 
but it was followed by a short laugh. She did not be- 
lieve it. ^ 


98 


YOUNG FOLKS* 


Chapter X. 


^ I^OM sat in his little room over the carriage house* 
^ and looked with pride and delight at a letter he 
had just received from George Shelby. The round, 
boyish writing seemed the most wonderful penmanship 
he had ever seen. 

“ I tell you, Missy Eva, that boy ’s sure gwine to be 
a great man,” he said; “he jes nachelly kaint help it. 
He ain’t but fourteen years old, and he kin send a letter 
here dat makes my heart sing glory tunes. Read it 
agin, will you, little missy 1 ” 
Eva read the letter again and 
tears ran down Tom’s cheeks 
as he heard of his loved ones. 
“My dear old Uncle 
Tom,” the letter said. “We 
got your letter, and my! 
we were so glad to know 
that you are so well 
contented. But I miss 
you lots, and we all 
do. Soon you will be 
home with us again. 
Mother was going to 
take music scholars so 
she could get money 
to buy you back, but 
that won’t be neces- 


‘Read it agin, will you, little missy?** 



UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


99 



Tom sat down on the mossy bank beside her. 



100 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


sary now, for Aunt Chloe has gone to work as a cook in 
Louisville and she will save all her money to buy you. I 
shall help her. If she gets four dollars a week for fifty-two 
weeks, she’ll make four times fifty-two which are two hun- 
dred and eight dollars. The children are well, and the 
baby walks as good as any one. Your cabin is shut up 
now, but when you come home I’ll have it made larger 
and finer than ever for you. I study reading, writing and 
several things. Have you got the dollar I gave you yet ?* 
I always felt glad that you had it. Well, I can’t think of 
any more to say, but I love you, and I say every day in 
my prayers that I want you to come home. 

Ever your loving, 

George.” 

Tom drew a long breath of admiration and murmured 
a blessing on “ Mas’r Georgie,” and then he went with 
his little mistress out to watch the sunset. 

The family had removed to their summer villa at Lake 
Pont chart rain, and the pretty East Indian cottage was 
surrounded by gardens of flowers overlooking the beau- 
tiful sheet of water that now glimmered in the golden 
glow of sunset. Eva sank down in her wicker chair 
and Tom sat down on the mossy bank beside her. 
They had grown to be great comrades, this little lily 
maid and the slave; and the man would have gladly 
given his life for her if he could have done so, for he 
saw what others did not — that the sweet child-spirit was 
pluming its wings for a return to heaven. 

The little girl had her Bible on her knee, and as she 
looked across the lake in the purple and gold and pearl 
of sunset, and said thoughtfully : 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


101 


“Tom, where do you suppose the new Jerusalem is.^^ ” 

He pointed upward, and just then Topsy’s voice was 
borne toward them as she sang: 

“ Bar’s a little blackbird in de tree; 

Howdy, Mistah Blackbird, howdy 
‘ Fse right peart,’ he sez, sez ee. 

Like a sassy little rowdy. 

Howdy, little miss.f^ Howdy, little mdin? 

Howdy, little blackbird, howdy ” 

The child made up the words as she sang, and she intro- 
duced into the weird melody which carried them all 
manner of notes which even the mocking bird answered 
from the thicket. 

“ Poor little Topsy,”said Eva with a smile, “don’t you 
think, Tom, that she is trying to be good now ? I shall 
be so sorry to leave her.” 

Tom’s heart grew faint. “ Whar — whar’s yo all going, 
little Missy Eva ? ” he asked. 

The child rose and pointed her hand toward the sky. 
The light shone around her and Tom thought she looked 
like an angel. 

“ I am going there. Uncle Tom, up there — before long, 
too. I must tell papa soon, and then we must help him 
to bear it, you and I.” 

“ Oh I’se so wicked I dunno what ter do. 

But still I loves huh, yes I do, 

I loves Miss Eva truly.” 

“ Hear that. Uncle Tom, Topsy loves me ! ” 

Tom burst into tears. 

“ Oh, little lady, little white lamb,” he said, “ the Lord 
sent you here ter bless us. You lay your soft hands on 


102 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


our sore, black hearts and make them well and clean f 
Come, little missy, the evenin’ dew is failin’. Come in.” 

They went toward the house just in time to see Miss. 
Ophelia drag Topsy into the drawing-room. 

“ Come here, now,” she said, “ I will tell your master.” 
Topsy took refuge, as usual, behind Mr. St. Clare’s 
chair. He was always more amused than angry at her 



ft * * * cut it all to pieces to make dolls’ jackets.” 


antics. Miss Marie, as Mrs. St. Clare was called by her 
servants, was far more severe in her treatment. 

“ What’s the case now ? ” asked Augustine. 

“ The case is, that I cannot be plagued with this child 
any longer ! It’s past all bearing; flesh and blood cannot 
endure it ! Here, I locked her up, and gave her a hyma 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


103 


to study ; and what does she do, but spy out where I put 
my key, and go to my bureau, and get a bonnet-trimming, 
and cut it all to pieces, to make dolls’ jackets! I never 
saw anything like it in my life I ” 

“ I told you, cousin,” said Marie, “ that you’d find out 
that these creatures can’t be brought up without severity. 
If I had my way, now,” she said, looking reproachfully at 
St. Clare, “ I’d send that child out and have her thor- 
oughly whipped.” 

“ I don’t doubt it,” said St. Clare. 

“ There is no use in this shilly-shally way of yours, St. 
Clare I ” said Marie. “ Cousin is a woman of sense, and 
she sees it now as plain as I do.” 

“ Well, I shall have to give her up,” said Miss Ophelia; 
“ I can’t have that trouble any longer.” 

Eva, who had stood a silent spectator of the scene thus 
far, made a silent sign to Topsy to follow her. There 
was a little glass room at the corner of the veranda, which 
St. Clare used as a sort of reading-room, and Eva and 
Topsy disappeared into this place. 

“ What’s Eva going about, now ? ” said St. Clare ; “ I 
mean to see.” 

And, advancing on tiptoe, he lifted up a curtain that 
covered the glass door, and looked in. In a moment, lay- 
ing his finger on his lips, he made a silent gesture to 
Miss Ophelia to come and look. There sat the two 
children on the floor, with their side faces toward them. 
Topsy, with her usual air of careless drollery and uncon- 
cern; but, opposite to her, Eva, her whole face fervent 
with feeling, and tears in her large eyes. 


104 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


“What does make you so bad, Topsy? Why won’t 
you try to be good? Don’t you love anybody, Topsy? ” 

“ Dunno nothing ’bout love.” 

“But, Topsy, if you’d only try to be good, you 
might ” 

“ Couldn’t never be nothin’ but a nigger, if I was ever 
so good,” said Topsy. “ If I could be skinned, and come 
white. I’d try then.” 



“ But people can love you, if you are black, Topsy. 
Miss Ophelia would love you, if you were good.” 

Topsy gave a short, blunt laugh. 

“ Don’t you think so ? ” said Eva. 

“ No, she can’t b’ar me, ’cause I’m a nigger — she’d ’s 
soon have a toad touch her ! There can’t nobody love 
niggers, and niggers can’t do nothin’ ! /don’t care,” said 
Topsy, beginning to whistle. 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


105 


“O, Topsy, poor child, / love you ! ” said Eva, with a 
sudden burst of feeling, and laying her little thin, white 
hand on Topsy ’s shoulder: “I love you, because you 
haven’t had any father, or mother, or friends — because 
you’ve been a poor, abused child ! I love you, and I want 
you to be good. I think I shan’t live a great while ; and 
it really grieves me to have you be so naughty. I wish 
you would try to be good, for my sake — it’s only a little 
while I shall be with you.” 

The round, keen eyes of the black child were overcast 
with tears — large, bright drops rolled heavily down, one 
by one, and fell on the little white hand. She laid her 
head down between her knees and sobbed. 

“ Poor Topsy! ” said Eva, “don’t you know that Jesus 
loves all alike ? He is just as willing to love you as me. 
He loves you just as I do — only more, because he is 
better. He will help you to be good; and you can go 
to Heaven at last and be an angel forever, just as much 
as if you were white. Only think of it, Topsy ! — you 
can be one of those spirits bright. Uncle Tom sings 
about.” 

“ O, dear Miss Eva, dear Miss Eva ! ” said the child ; 
" I will try, I will try ; I never did care nothin’ about it 
before.” 

St. Clare, at this instant, dropped the curtain. “ It 
puts me in mind of mother,” he said. 

“ Mamma,” said Eva, a few days later. She was in her 
little white bed now, and her father, who loved her better, 
far better, than his own life, had been obliged to admit 
that her stay with him was but for a little while. Her 
mother was too much occupied with her own ailments to 


106 


YOUNG FOLKS^ 


notice that the angel with the gray wings was already 
waiting for the child. 

“ Mamma ! ” The sweet voice had a clear ring in it 
“ I want to have a great deal of my hair cut off; please 
let me.” 

“ What for ? ” said Marie in surprise. 

“ I want to give it to my friends while I am here to 
put it into their hands myself. Please ask Aunty to cut 
it for me.” Miss Ophelia entered and looked at the 
child, inquiringly. 

“ Come, Aunty, shear the sheep,” she said playfully. 

St Clare entered the room. “ What are you doing? ” 
he asked. 

“ I want to give away my curls, papa.” She looked up 
into his eyes and he turned away murmuring: 

“ My baby, my little girl.. Everything shall be as you 
say.” 

“ Then I want to see our people all together. Please 
send and have them come to me. I have some things 
that I must say to them.” 

Ophelia w’-ent out and dispatched a messenger, and 
soon the whole of the servants were in the room. 

Eva sat up and smiled at them so sweetly that more 
than one felt that it was a smile from the heavenly land. 

“I sent for you all,” said Eva, “because I love you. I 
love you all ; and I have something to say to you, which 
I want you always to remember. ... . . I am going 

to leave you. In a few more weeks, you will see me 
no more ” 

Here she was interrupted by bursts of sobs from all 
present, and in which her voice was lost entirely. She 
waited a moment and then said: 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN 


107 


“ If you love me, you must not interrupt me so. Listen 
to what I say. I want to speak to you about your souls. 
. . . Many of you, I am afraid, are very careless. You 
are thinking only about this world. I want you to re- 
member that there is a beautiful world, where Jesus is. 
I am going there, and you can go there. It is for you 
as much as me. But, if you want to go there, you must 





« * xhey gathered around the little creature. 

not live idle, careless, thoughtless lives. You must be 
Christians. Jesus will help you. You must pray to Him ; 
you must read 

The child checked herself, looked piteously at them, 
and said, sorrowfully: 

“ O, dear ! you emit read — ^poor souls ! ” and she hid 
her face in the pillow and sobbed, while many a smothered 
sob from those she was addressing, who were kneeling 
on the floor, aroused her. 


108 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


“Never mind,” she said, raising her face and smiling 
brightly through her tears, “ I have prayed for you ; and I 
know Jesus will help you, even if you can’t read. Try 
all to do the best you can; pray every day; ask Him to 
help you. I shall see you all in Heaven.” 

“ Amen ! ” was the murmured response from the lips of 
Tom and Mammy, and some of the elder ones, who be- 
longed to the Methodist church. The younger and more 
thoughtless ones, for the time completely overcome, 
were sobbing, with their heads bowed upon their knees. 

“I know,” said Eva, “you all love me.” There isn’t 
one of you that hasn’t always been very kind to me; and 
I want to give you something that, when you look at it, 
you shall always remember me. I’m going to give all of 
you a curl of my hair; and when you look at it, think 
that I loved you and am gone to Heaven, and that I 
want to see you all there.” 

With tears they gathered around the little creature, 
and took from her hands a last mark of her love. They 
fell on their knees ; sobbed, and prayed, and kissed the 
hem of her garment; and the elder ones poured forth 
words of endearment, mingled in prayers and blessings 
after the manner of their race. 

As they took their gift. Miss Ophelia signed to each 
one to pass out of the apartment. 

At last all were gone but Tom and Mammy. 

“ Here, Uncle Tom,” said Eva, is a beautiful one for 
you. O, I am so happy. Uncle Tom, to think I shall 
see you in heaven — ^for I’m sure I shall; and Mammy — 
dear, good, kind Mammy! ” she said, fondly throwing her 
arms round her old nurse — “ I know you’ll be there, too.” 


UNCI,E TOM’S CABIN. 


109 



She fell into a light slumber, with her head resting on his breast. 


110 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


“ O, Miss Eva, don’t see how I can live without ye, 
no how ! ” said the faithful creature. 

Miss Ophelia pushed her and Tom gently from the 
apartment, and thought they were all gone; but, as she 
turned, Topsy was standing there. 

“Where did you start up from.'^” she said, suddenly. 

“ I was here,” said Topsy, wiping the tears from her 
eyes. 

“O, Miss Eva, I’ve been a bad girl; but won’t you 
give one, too ” 

“ Yes, poor Topsy ! to be sure I will. There, every 
time you look at that, think that I love you, and wanted 
you to be a good girl ! ” 

“ O, Miss Eva, I is tryin’ ! ” said Topsy, earnestly, 
“but it’s so hard to be good! ’Pears like I ain’t used 
to it, no ways 1 ” 

“Jesus knows it, Topsy; He is sorry for you; He will 
help you.” 

Topsy, with her eyes hid in her apron, passed from the 
apartment, but, as she went, she hid the precious curl in 
her bosom. ^ 

Mrs. St. Clare and Ophelia left the room and Augustine 
went over and took his little daughter in his arms. For 
a time they sat in silence. Then she whispered: 

“ Sing to me, papa,” and he sang until she fell into a 
light slumber with her head resting on his breast. For 
a while he watched the long lashes shading the fever 
flushed cheeks, through his tears. Then the great eyes 
unclosed. 

“ Papa,” she said, “promise me to set Uncle Tom free; 
promise me now.” 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


Ill 


“ I will, dearest,” he answered, “ I will.” 

“ Papa,” she said, “ it is growing so dark, I cannot see 
your face.” She put up her hand and touched his cheek 
tenderly. “ But I think I hear Topsy singing somewhere. 
Be good to all my friends, papa. Where is Tom ? ” 

“ Here, Missy, waitin’ at the door.” Tom crept into the 
room and sat down on the floor at Mr. St. Clare’s feet. 
He took hold of the hem of Eva’s white dress and his 
tears fell upon it. Then he raised his eyes and looked 
deep into the eyes of his master ; and the two who loved 
Eva best forgot that they were master and slave as 
they waited, with clasped hands, for the coming of the 
angel. After awhile Eva raised her head and smiled. 

“ What is it, Eva ; what is it, my heart’s love ? ” 

But the beautiful face sank down on his breast and 
Tom rose to his knees and said solemnly: 

“She’s gone, mas’r; she’s in the everlastin’ arms now. 
The little white lamb has gone home.” 


112 


YOUNG FOLKS* 


Chapter XL 


' INHERE was a gentle stir in the Quaker house as 
the afternoon drew to a close. Rachel Halliday 
busied herself collecting from her store such things as 
could be easily carried by the fugitives in their flight, 

for George Harris 

and the other negro 
runaways were to 
start out that night. 
The afternoon shad- 
ows stretched east- 
ward, and the sun 
hung like a red ball 
on the horizon. The 
last rays shone with 
calm peace into the 
little room where 
George and Eliza sat, 
hand in hand, talking 
of what the future 
might bring to them. 

“ We are not quite 
out of danger, and we 
must not be too hope- 
ful. Oh, I shall be 
so glad when we are 
safe in Canada.” 

George stretched 
out his arms. 

Simeon and Phineas. 



UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


113 


“Oh,” he said, “this breath of freedom has given me 
the strength of ten men. I feel that I could fight the 
^vhole pack of wolves that are after us.’' 

A light knock at the door interrupted them. Eliza 
started and opened the door. Simeon Halliday was there, 
and with him a Quaker brother whom he introduced as 
Pl.ineas Fletcher. Phineas was tall, lathy, lank and red- 
headed, with a droll and whimsical expression, quite dif- 
ferent from Simeon’s placid and unworldly look. In 
fact, he had the air of a man who knew a great deal 
about what was going on in the world and kept his eye 
on things generally. 

“ Our friend Phineas hath discovered something of in- 
terest to thee and thy party, George,” said Simeon. “ It 
will be well for thee to hear.” 

“ That I have,” said Phineas, “and it shows the wisdom 
of always sleeping in strange places with 
one eye and both ears open. Last night, 
at a little lone tavern by the river, where 
I happened to be caught by nightfall, I had 
my supper, and then stretched myself out 
on a pile of bags for a bit of a nap before 
bedtime. There were a number of men in 
the room talking and I heard them speak 
about the Quakers. So I went to breathing 
very deeply, to show them that I was sound 
asleep, and not likely to hear anything they 
might be saying in confidence. 

“ So, ho ! ” said one, “ they are up in the 
Friends’ settlement. Well, there will be no 
trouble in scaring those meek brothers into 


smooth-talking rascal.” 



114 


YOUNG FOLKS* 


giving them up. Then I kept still and heard them lay 
out their plans for capturing this very party. Two con- 
stables from a town up the stream are coming with them 
to make the arrest, and then a smooth-talking young 
rascal is going to swear that Eliza is his property, and get 
her delivered over to him to take South. The boy they 
are going to give up to the trader who bought him from 
the Shelby plantation in Kentucky, and Jim and his old 
mother are to be returned to their masters. I think, 
friend George,” continued Phineas, with a whimsical look 
at Harris, “ that it will be as well for thee to get away, for 
thy old owner intends to take thy hide for a door mat, 
and make an example that the other negroes on his place 
will think of when they are inclined to run away. There 
is to be a posse eight or ten strong on our trail, I think. 
They seem to know about the direction we mean to take, 
although I may have confused them a trifle. They ques- 
tioned me a bit this morning as I was about to come 
away. Said one: 

“ Friend, did you see a runaway nigger on the road as 
you came along ? ” 

“ Was he a tall fellow ? ” I asked. 

“Yes.” 

“Yellow.?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Pretty intelligent and well dressed.? ” 

“Yes.” They were pretty excited by this time. 

“ Did you see him .? ” 

“ No,” I answered, “ I haven’t seen anyone.” 

“ Simeon,” said Mrs. Halliday, reprovingly, “ did thee 
provoke thy neighbor to wrath .? ” 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


llo 


“ I shouldn’t wonder if I did,” said the Quaker, with a 
smile. “ But come, now, what is to be done ? I for one 
do not intend to let those men get our friends here if 
there is a way to prevent it. They are wicked and cruel 



Friend, did you see a runaway nigger on the road 
as you came along?” 

men and I am willing to give them a merry chase. What 
shall we plan to do ? ” 

The group that stood in various attitudes, after this 
communication, was worthy of a painter. Rachel Halli- 
day, who had taken her hands out of a batch of biscuit 
to hear the news, stood with them upraised and floury, 


116 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


and with a face of the deepest concern. Simeon looked 
profoundly thoughtful; Eliza had thrown her arms around 
her husband and was looking up to him. George stood 
with clinched hands and glowing eyes, and looking as 
any other man might look whose wife was to be sold at 
auction, and son sent to a trader, all under the shelter of 
a Christian nation’s laws. 

“ What shall we do, George ” said Eliza, faintly. 



“ I know what / shall do,” said George. 


“ I know what / shall do,” said George, as he stepped 
into the little room and began examining his pistols. 

“Ay, ay,” said Phineas, nodding his head to Simeon; 
“ thou seest, Simeon, how it will work.” 

“ I see,” said Simeon, sighing ; “ I pray it come not to 
that.” 

“ I don’t want to involve any one with or for me,” said 
George. “ If you will lend me your vehicle and direct 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


117 


me, I will drive alone to the next stand. Jim is a giant 
in strength, and brave as death and despair, and so am I.” 

“ Ah, well, friend,” said Phineas, “ but thee’ll need a 
driver, for all that. Thee’s quite welcome to do all the 
fighting thee knows ; but I know a thing or two about 
the road, that thee doesn’t.” 

“ But I don’t want to involve you,” said George. 

“ Involve,” said Phineas, with a curious and keen ex- 
pression of face. “ When thee does involve me, please 
to let me know.” 

“ I will attack no man,” said George. “ All I ask of 
this country is to be let alone, and I will go out peace- 
ably ; but ” — he paused, and his brow darkened and his 
face worked — “ am I going to stand by and see them 
take my wife and sell her, when God has given me a 
pair of strong arms to defend her.? No, I’ll fight to the 
last breath, before they shall take my wife and son. Can 
you blame me .? ” 

“ Mortal man cannot blame thee, George. Flesh and 
blood could not do otherwise,” said Simeon. 

“ Would not even you, sir, do the same, in my place.? ” 

“I pray that I be not tried,” said Simeon; “the flesh 
is weak.” 

“ I think my flesh would be pretty tolerable strong in 
such a case,” said Phineas, stretching out a pair of arms 
like the sails of a windmill. “ I ain’t sure, friend George, 
that I shouldn’t hold a fellow for thee, if thee had any 
accounts to settle with him.” 

“ If man should ever resist evil,” said Simeon, “ then 
George should feel free to do it now. Let us pray the 
Lord that we be not tempted.” 


118 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


“And so / do,” said Phineas; “but if we are tempted 
too much — why, let them look out, that’s all.” 

“ It’s quite plain thee wasn’t born a Friend,” said 
Simeon, smiling. “ The old nature hath its way in thee 
pretty strong as yet.” 

To tell the truth, Phineas had been a hearty, two-fisted 
backwoodsman, a vigorous hunter, and a dead shot at a 
buck ; but, having wooed a pretty Quakeress, had been 
moved by the power of her charms to join the society in 
his neighborhood. 

“ Friend Phineas will ever have ways of his own,” said 
Rachel Halliday, smiling; “but we all think that his 
heart is in the right place, after all.” 

A little while after supper, a large covered wagon drew 
up before the door ; the night was clear starlight ; and 
Phineas jumped briskly down from his seat to arrange 
his passengers. George walked out of the door, with 
his child on one arm and his wife on the other. His 
step was firm, his face settled and resolute. Rachel and 
Simeon came out after them. 

“You get out a moment,” said Phineas to those inside,. 
“ and let me fix the back of the wagon, there, for the 
women folks and the boy.” 

“ Here are the two buffaloes,” said Rachel. “ Make 
the seats as comfortable as may be ; it’s hard riding all 
night.” 

Jim came out first, and carefully assisted out his old 
mother, who clung to his arm and looked anxiously 
about, as if she expected the pursuer every moment. 

“ Jim, are your pistols all in order.? ” said George, in a 
low voice. 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


110 


“Yes, indeed,” said Jim. 

“ And you’ve no doubt what you shall do, if they 
come ? ” 

“ I rather think I haven’t,” said Jim, throwing open 
his broad chest and taking a deep breath. “ Do you 
think I’ll let them get mother again .f* ” 

During this brief colloquy, Eliza had been taking her 



On, on, on they jogged, hour after hour. 


leave of her kind friend, Rachel, and was handed into 
the carriage by Simeon, and creeping into the back part 
with her boy, sat down among the buffalo skins. The 
old woman was next handed in and seated, and George 
and Jim placed on a rough board seat in front of them, 
and Phineas mounted in front. 


120 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


“ Farewell, my friends,” said Simeon, from without. 

“ God bless you ! ” answered all from within. 

And the wagon drove off, rattling and jolting over the 
frozen road. 

There was no opportunity for conversation, on account 
of the roughness of the way and the noise of the wheels. 
The vehicle, therefore rumbled on, through long, dark 
stretches of woodland — over wide, dreary plains, up hills, 
and down valleys — and on, on, on they jogged, hour 
after hour. The child soon fell asleep; and, mile after 
mile was passed, the poor woman almost forgot her fears. 
Suddenly George leaned forward and listened. There 
was the sound of horses* feet galloping fast behind them. 
Phineas, with a shrewd glance back at George, speeded 
his horses up to a steep overhanging rock and stepped 
out. 

“ This is the place I have been working to reach,” he 
said: “ Out with you and up into these rocks with me.” 

He caught Harry up in his strong arms, and, with the 
rest at his heels, scrambled up like a goat to the top of 
the ledge. The path then narrowed so that only one 
one could pass at a time until suddenly they came to a 
chasm more than a yard in breadth, behind which rose 
a mass of rock thirty feet high with walls as steep and 
smooth as those of a fortress. Phineas easily leaped 
across and with little difficulty the women were brought 
over. 

“Come,” cried the Quaker, “jump for your lives and 
liberty.” And even the old black woman leaped across. 
Some fragments of loose stone formed a breastwork and 
hid them from the sight of those below. 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN, 


121 


“ Here we are,” said Phineas, “let them get us if they 
can. Whoever comes up here will have to come single 
file between those two rocks in fair range of your pistols, 
boys, do you see 

“ I do see,” said George, firmly and now that this is 
our matter, let us do all the fighting and take all the risks.” 

The men below consisted of those Haley had em- 
ployed to hunt down the fugitives. Tom Loker, and a 
little fox of a lawyer by the name of Marks, whose rum 
painted nose was in everybody’s business. Two con- 
stables were with them, empowered to take George and 
the negro Jim, who had returned from Canada for his old 
mother. They were just making their way to the rocks 
when George appeared above them, and speaking in a 
calm, clear voice, said: 

“Gentlemen, who are you, and what do you want.^^ ” 

“We want a party of runaway niggers,” said Tom 
Loker. “ One George Harris, and Eliza Harris, and 
their son, and Jim Selden, and an old woman. We’ve 
got the officers here and a warrant to take ’em ; and 
we’re going to have ’em, too. D’ ye hear.? Ain’t you 
George Harris, that belongs to Mr. Harris, of Shelby 
county, Kentucky .? ” 

“ I am George Harris. A Mr. Harris, of Kentucky, 
did call me his property. But now I’m a free man, 
standing on God’s free soil; and my wife and my child I 
claim as mine. Jim and his mother are here. We have 
arms to defend ourselves, and we mean to do it. You 
can come up, if you like ; but the first one of you that 
comes within range of our bullets is a dead man, and the 
next and the next; and so on till the last.” 


122 


YOUNG FOLKS^ 


“ O, come! come! ” said a short, puffy man, stepping 
forward. “Young man, this ain’t any kind of talk at all 
for you. You see, we’re officers of justice. We’ve got 
the law on our side, and the power, and so forth; so 
you’d better give up peaceably, you see: for you’ll have 
to give up, at last.” 

“ I know very well that you’ve got the law on your 
side and the power,” said George, bitterly. “You mean 
to take my wife to sell in New Orleans, and put my 
boy like a calf in a trader’s pen, and send Jim’s old 
mother to the brute that abused her before, because 
he couldn’t abuse her son. You want to send Jim 
and me back to be whipped, and your laws will bear 
you out in it, more shame for you and them I But you 
haven’t got us. We don’t own your laws; we don’t own 
your countr}G we stand here as free, under God’s sky, as 
you are; and by the great God that made us, we’ll fight 
for our liberty till we die.” 

There is something in boldness and determination 
that, for a time, hushes even the rudest nature. Marks 
was the only one who remained wholly untouched. He 
was deliberately cocking his pistol, and, in the moment- 
ary silence that followed George’s speech, he fired at 
him. 

“Ye see ye get jist as much for him dead as alive in 
Kentucky,” he said, coolly, as he wiped his pistol on his 
coat sleeve. 

George sprang backward — Eliza uttered a shriek — the 
ball had passed close to his hair, had nearly grazed the 
cheek of his wife, and struck in the tree above. 

“It’s nothing, Eliza.” said George, quickly. 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


123 


“ Thee’d better keep out of sight, with thy speechify- 
ing,” said Phineas ; “ they’re mean scamps.” 

“Now, Jim,” said George, “look that your pistols are 
all right, and watch that pass with me. The first man 
that shows himself I fire at ; you take the second, and so 
on. It won’t do, you know, to waste two shots on one.” 

“ But what if you don’t hit ? ” 

“I shall hit,” said 
George, coolly. 

“Good! now, there’s 
stuff in that fellow,” mut- 
tered Phineas, between his 
teeth. 

The party below, after 
Marks had fired, stood, for 
a moment, rather undecided. 

“ I think you must have hit 
some on ’em,” said one of the 
men. “ I heard a squeal 1 ” 

“ I’m going right up, for one,” 
said Tom. “ I never was afraid 
of niggers, and I ain’t going to be now. 

Who goes after } ” he said, springing 
up the rocks. 

George heard the words distinctly. 

He drew up his pistol, examined it, 
pointed it toward that point in the de- 
file where the first man would appear. 

One of the most courageous of the 
party followed Tom, and, the way being 
thus made, the whole party began pushing 


And sent him over the edge of the cliff. 



124 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


up the rock — the hindermost pushing the front ones 
faster than they would have gone of themselves. On 
they came, and in a moment the burly form of Tom 
appeared in sight, almost at the verge of the chasm. 

George fired — the shot entered Loker’s side — but, 
though wounded, he would not retreat. With a snarl, 
he sprang over the chasm, and in a moment more would 
have been among the little group; but the Quaker, who 
could not fight, swung put a long arm and sent him over 
the edge of the cliff, crashing through trees and loose 
stones until he landed, bruised and broken, thirty feet 
below. 

“Come on! ” shouted Phineas; “ I am a man of peace, 
but the next friend that attempts to cross here will go 
down to keep that gentleman company.” 

For a few moments the men seemed undecided what 
to do. Then Marks ran out and jumped on his horse. 

“While you are attending to Tom, I’ll ride back for 
help,” he said, striking his spurs and starting off on a 
gallop, and in a second the others had mounted. 

“We may as well all go,” they said. And they rode 
on, leaving the unfortunate Loker in the bottom of the 
ravine. 

Phineas watched the proceedings with a laugh. 

“ I guess the coast is clear now,” he said. “ Come, we 
will move on.” 

“ Oh,” said Eliza, “ that poor man must not be left 
here alone. Can’t we do something for him ? ” 

“It would be no more than Christian,” said George; 
“ let us take him up and carry him along to some place 
where he can be taken care of.” 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


125 


The men made their way down to where Loker lay, 
groaning in pain, and Phineas, who was, in his way, a 
surgeon, looked after his wound. 

“ Marks,” said Loker, feebly; “ Is that you, Marks 

“ Well, I reckon not, friend,” answered the Quaker. 
“ Marks is looking after himself ; he left you to die here 
alone.” 

“You pushed me down there,” said the man faintly. 

“ Yea, that I did. If I hadn’t ; thee would have pushed 
us down ; thee sees ? There, let me fix this bandage, and 
then we’ll take thee to a bed as soft as thy mother ever 
made thee.” 

Eliza ran and brought a buffalo robe from the wagon, 
and the men rolled Loker’s heavy form into it and bore 
him in that way to the vehicle. The old negress held 
his head on her lap, and they went onward toward safety 
slowly on account of the wounded enemy they carried 
along with them. 


126 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


Chapter XII. 

' 1^0 PS Y had a talent for all sorts of mimicry. She 
could tumble, whistle, climb, and imitate every 
sound of bird or animal that she happened to hear. At 
first she was despised by all of the St. Clare servants, 
but after a while she was treated with the greatest con- 
sideration and respect; for it was discovered that whoever 
offended Topsy was sure to come to grief. Some cher- 
ished trinket would be missing, or some article of dress 
ruined, or the person would stumble over a line strung 
across a dark passage into a pail of hot water, or catch 
a shower of water thrown from above on their best 
clothes. 

No one ever doubted who the mischief maker was; 
but she was innocence, itself, when she was accused, and 
she was too quick to be caught at her pranks. She 
always timed them when Rosa or Jane, or whoever she 
chose for a victim, was out of favor with Mrs. St. Clare; 
and as that happened pretty often, she was reasonably 
safe from that lady’s wrath. So it came about that 
Topsy was coaxed and conciliated all the time by the 
rest of the household servants, and she ruled them with 
a rod of iron. 

The child was smart and energetic in all her work. 
No one could find a word of fault with any bed that 
Topsy ’s hands made smooth. But if Miss Ophelia hap- 
pened to go away and leave her alone to perform her 
task, Topsy would hold a perfect carnival of confusion 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


127 



The bolster dressed up in her night clothes, * * * while 
Topsy turned hand-springs around it. 



128 


YOUNG FOLKS* 


for two hours. Instead of making the bed, she would 
amuse herself by pulling off the pillow-cases and butting 
her woolly head among the pillows until it would be 
grotesquely ornamented with feathers sticking out in all 
directions. She would climb the posts and hang, head 
downward, from the tops, and flourish the sheets and 
spreads all over the apartment. Miss Ophelia entered 
one morning to find the bolster dressed up in her night 
clothes, and standing straight and tall in the center of 
the room, while Topsy turned hand-springs around it, 
arrayed in her mistress’s best scarlet crepe shawl. 

“ Topsy! ” Miss Ophelia’s voice was shrill with anger. 
“ What are you doing with my shawl, and what makes 
you act so ” 

Topsy came to a sudden halt, bolt upright before her. 

“ I dunno, missy,” she said, “ I ’spect it’s ’cause I’se so 
wicked.” 

“ I don’t know what to do with you, Topsy.” 

“ Lan’, missy. I’ll tell yo. Yo all ’s got ter whip me. 
My ole missis used ter whip me, an’ I ain’ used ter 
workin’ without bein’ trounced.” 

“Why, Topsy, I don’t want to whip you. Can’t you 
be good without ? ” 

“Nome. I’se got ter be whipped, sure ’nuff. I’se 
gwine ter fetch yo in dat hick’ry now, an’ yo better tan 
my black hide good.” 

She ran out and soon returned with the stick. Miss 
Ophelia took it in her hand, gingerly, and then laid a 
light stroke on the child’s back ; but started in alarm and 
horror at the awful yell it brought forth. 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


129 


“Oh, oh, oh. Miss Feely, don’t! Yose killin’ me! 
Oh, Miss Feely!” 

“ Topsy, stop that noise,’' said the poor lady, trembling. 
“ I scarcely touched you.” 

“ Oh, oh, yo hurt ! Don’t, Miss Feely, oh, oh ! ” Then 
she stopped in the midst of her screams to say : 

“ Please, ma’am. Miss Feely, give me anudder whack. 
I needs it, dat I does. I needs it turrible.” 

“ Go out of the room, Topsy, and when you can be a 
good girl you can come back and make my bed.” 

Groaning and wailing, Topsy went out, and in a minute 
more was perched, like a blackbird, on the balcony, with 
a dozen admiring pickaninnies around her, listening to 
her experiences. 

“ Yo all jes’ orter feel de whippin’ I got off Miss Feely,” 
she boasted. “ One little tap dat wouldn’t kill a skeeter. 
Don’ yo all wish dat yo was wicked like me? Ise de 
wickedist nigger on dis yere plantation. Dat I is. Yose 
all sinners. White folks is sinners, too. Miss Feely says 
dat, huhsef. But dey ain’t nobuddy kin tech me. Ise 
de wust nigger dat grows. Dey kaint nobuddy do nuffin’ 
with me,” and Topsy performed all sorts of gymnastics, 
to the delight of her audience. 

Sundays, Miss Ophelia busied herself teaching Topsy 
the catechism. The child had a remarkable memory, 
and could trip through the words with accuracy, and 
Miss Ophelia had great hopes that the meaning might 
sink into the heart that had proved itself capable of love 
when Eva had touched it. 

Mr. St. Clare laughed at his cousin for her pains, but 


130 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


it amused him to hear the child recite, as with hands 
solemnly folded, and standing like a black statue in 
front of them, she went on: 

“ Our fust parents, bein’ left to de freedom of dere own 
will, fell from de state wherein dey were created.” 

“ Who were our first parents, Topsy.f^” asked St. 
Clare. 

“ I dunno, mas r; I nebber did know dem niggers.” 

“ Augustine,” protested Miss Ophelia, “why will you ? ” 

“ My dear cousin, I just wanted to get a little infor- 
mation from your pupil. Topsy, what was the state 
wherein they were created ? ” 

“Why dat was ole Kintuck, mas’r. We all ’s come 
down yere from dar. I done hearn Uncle Tom say dat. 
Tom’s gwine back dar when he gets free. But me an’ 
Miss Feely, we all ’s gwine ter up norf tergedder, ain’t we, 
missy.f^ ” 

“ If you are a good girl, Topsy.” 

“ Has I got ter be good er yo won’t take me.^^ ” 

“Yes, Topsy.” 

“ Wull, mebbe I better stay down yere.” 

“Don’t you want to be good, Topsy.?” asked Mr. St. 
Clare, smilingly, as he looked at the girl over his paper. 

“Who? Me? No, sah, I don’ wanter be good. I 
likes cump’ny.” 

Topsy sat on the steps in front of Miss Ophelia and 
cast her eyes up slyly to look into the stern face. 

“ Is yo mad. Miss Feely? ” she asked. 

“No, Topsy.” 

“ Is yo sad. Miss Feely ? ” 

Miss Ophelia’s face quivered. 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


131 


“ O yes, Topsy,” she said, “ O yes.” 

“ ’Bout little Miss Eva’s gwine away up ter heaben.^^ 
Why, Miss Feely, she wanted ter go, an’ she’s gwine 
ter ask de Lord ter let yo an’ me go to huh. Dat she 
is. I’se gwine ter be a little brack angel wif wings on. 
What’s yo all gwine ter be. Miss Feely ? ” 

Miss Ophelia did not answer, and Tom came around 
the corner of the house. In the year since the death of 
Eva he had grown older and more sad. His heart kept 
turning back toward his own folks in old Kentucky. 

Mr. St. Clare had promised him his freedom, but the 
faithful heart clung to his master in the time of his great 
sorrow. 

“ I’ll go back home, mas’r, when you feel happy again,” 
he said, and although his very soul grew faint with long- 
ing to return, he would not leave his master comfortless. 

“Well, Tom,” said St. Clare, the day after he had com- 
menced the legal formalities for his enfranchisement, 
“ I’m going to make a free man of you — so have your 
trunk packed, and get ready to set out for Kentuck.” 

The sudden light of joy that shone in Tom’s face as 
he raised his hands to heaven, his emphatic “ Bless the 
Lord ! ” rather discomposed St. Clare ; he did not like it 
that Tom should be so ready to leave him. 

“You haven’t had such very bad times here, that you 
need be in such a rapture, Tom,” he said dryly. 

“No, no, mas’r! ’t ain’t that; it’s bein’ a /ree man! 
That’s what I’m joyin’ for.” 

“ Why, Tom, don’t you think, for your own part, you’ve 
been better off than to be free ” 


132 


YOUNG FOLKS* 


''No, indeed, Mas’r St. Clare,” said Tom, with a flash 
cf energy. “No indeed ! ” 

“ Why, Tom, you couldn’t possibly have earned, by 
your work, such clothes and such living as I have given 
you.” 

“ Knows all that, Mas’r St. Clare ; mas’r ’s been too 
good ; but, mas’r. I’d rather have poor clothes, poor house^ 
poor everything, and have ’em mine, than have the best, 
and have ’em any man’s else ; I had so, mas’r ; I think 
it’s natur’, mas’r.” 

“ I suppose so, Tom, and you’ll be going off and leav- 
ing me in a month or so,” he added, rather discontentedly. 
“ Though why you shouldn’t, no mortal knows,” he said,, 

in a gayer tone; and, 
getting up, he began to 
walk the floor. 

“ Not while mas’r is 
in trouble,” said Tom. 
“ I’ll stay with mas’r as 
long as he wants me — 
so as I can be any use.” 

“ Not while I’m in 
trouble, Tom ? ” said St. 
Clare, looking sadly out 
of the window. . . . 

“And when will my 
trouble be over ? ” 
“When Mas’r St. 
Clare’s a Christian,” said 
Tom. 

“And you really meart 


Not while mas’r is in trouble,” said Tom. 



UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


133 


to stay by till that day comes said St. Clare, half 
smiling, as he turned from the window and laid his hands 
on Tom’s shoulder. “Ah, Tom, you soft, silly boy! I 
won’t keep you till that day. Go home to your wife and 
•children, and give my love to all.” 

“ I ’s faith to believe that day will come,” said Tom, 
earnestly, and with tears in his eyes ; “ the Lord has a 
work for mas’r.” 

“ A work, hey said St. Clare; “well, now, Tom, give 
me your views on what sort of a work it is — let’s hear.” 

“ Why, even a poor fellow like me has a work from 
the Lord; and Mas’r St. Clare, that has lamin’, and riches, 
and friends — how much he might do for the Lord 1 ” 

“ Tom, you seem to think the Lord needs a great deal 
•done for him,” said St. Clare, smiling. 

“We does for the Lord when we does for his critturs,” 
said Tom. 

“ Good theology, Tom ; better than Dr. B. preaches,” 
said St. Clare. 

Marie St. Clare felt the loss of Eva as deeply as she 
could feel anything; and, as she was a woman that had 
a great faculty of making everybody unhappy when she 
was, her immediate attendants had still stronger reason 
to regret the loss of their young mistress, whose win- 
ning ways and gentle intercessions had so often been a 
shield to them from the tyrannical and selfish exactions 
of her mother. Poor old Mammy, in particular, whose 
heart, severed from all natural domestic ties, had con- 
soled itself with this one beautiful being, was almost 
heartbroken. She cried day and night, and was, from 
excess of sorrow, less skillful and alert in her ministra- 


134 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


tions on her mistress than usual, which drew down a. 
constant storm of scoldings on her defenseless head. 

She heard her husband’s voice as he talked with Tom,, 
and with a shrug of her shoulders, turned away. 

“ I would keep niggers in their place if I had the 
ruling of this plantation,” she said. 

But the master and slave sat long together in the 
fading light; and the father’s sore heart was comforted 
by the words of faith and love that the black lips spoke. 

“You shall have your freedom, Tom, my faithful 
friend,” said St. Clare. “ To-morrow I shall have your 
papers made out.” 

“ I don’t know what makes me think of my mother so 
much, to-night. I have a strange kind of feeling, as if 
she were near me. I keep thinking of things she used 
to say. Strange, what brings these past things so vividly 
back to us, sometimes ! ” 

St. Clare walked up and down the room for some 
minutes more, and then said : 

“ I believe I’ll go down street a few moments, and 
hear the news.” 

He took his hat and passed out. 

Tom followed him to the passage, out of the court,, 
and asked if he should attend him. 

“ No, my boy,” said St. Clare. “ I shall be back in an 
hour.” 

Tom sat down on the veranda. It was a beautiful 
moonlight evening, and he sat watching the rising and 
falling spray of the fountain, and listening to its murmur. 
He thought of his home, and that he should soon be a 
free man, and able to return to it at will. He thought 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


135 



Tom sat down on the veranda. 




136 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


how he should work to buy his wife and boys. He felt 
the muscles of his brawny arms with a sort of joy, as he 
thought they would soon belong to himself, and how 
much they could do to work out the freedom of his 
family. Then he thought of his noble young master, 
and, ever second to that, came the habitual prayer that 
he had always offered for him ; and then his thoughts 
passed on to the beautiful Eva, whom he now thought of 
among the angels ; and he thought till he almost fancied 
that that bright face and golden hair were looking upon 
him, out of the spray of the fountain. And, so musing, 
he fell asleep, and dreamed he saw her coming bounding 
toward him, just as she used to come, with a wreath of 
jessamine in her hair, her cheeks bright, and her eyes 
radiant with delight; but, as he looked, she seemed to 
rise from the ground ; her cheeks wore a paler hue — her 
eyes had a deep, divine radiance, a golden halo seemed 
around her head — and she vanished from his sight ; and 
Tom was awakened by a loud knocking, and a sound of 
many voices at the gate. 

He hastened to undo it; and, with smothered voices 
and heavy tread, came several men, bringing a body, 
wrapped in a cloak, and lying on a shutter. The light of 
the lamp fell full on the face; and Tom gave a wild cry 
of amazement and despair; for St. Clare, his young 
master, had caught in his tender heart a bullet intended 
for some one else as he walked down the street. 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


137 


Chapter XIII. 


N the lower part of a small, mean boat on the Red 
River, Tom sat with chains on his wrists and chains 
on his hands, and a weight heavier and bitterer than iron 
on his heart. Moon and star had faded from his sky. 
Hope had passed him as the trees that edged the banks 
of the stream were passing now to return no more. The 
Kentucky home, the little cabin with its precious occu- 
pants; the St. Clare plantation with its splendors, and 
the golden-haired Eva with her saint-like smile and lov- 
ing-kindness; the gay, gentle, generous young master 
who had prom- 
ised him his 
freedom — all, 
all were gone. 

For Mrs. St. 

Clare had disre- 
garded her hus- 
band’s wishes, and 
had sold Tom and 
all of the other ser- 
vants, and her little 

girl’s friend, the Cj 

faithful, tender soul who had comforted 



and helped her husband, was again in 
chains, and his owner was a rough and 
cruel man by the name of Simon Lagree. 
The boat moved on and up the red, 




138 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


muddy, turbid current, through the abrupt and serpentine 
windings of the stream, and sad eyes gazed wearily on the 
steep clay banks until the craft came to a stop at a dreary 
town, and Lagree and his human property disembarked. 

Trailing along behind a rude wagon and over a ruder 
road, Tom and his associates walked with sinking hearts 
toward the Lagree plantation. They read, with their 
keen eyes, the wicked face of their owner, and knew that 
sorrow was to be their lot. 

He turned upon them as they walked silently along 
and shouted: 

“ Tune up there. Give us something lively. No Meth- 
odist hymns, but a jolly song. Hip, hip, there! 

One of the men struck up a negro melody : 

“Mas’r seed me cotch a coon, 

Lan’, he hollered like a loon, 

’Spect ril cotch anudder soon — 

High, niggers, high ! ” 

The singer made up the words as he went along and 
all the party took up the chorus : 

Hi-e~yo, niggers! 

Hi-e-o, high! 

It was sung very boisterously; but the ear above heard 
in it a prayer for help and deliverance that the slave- 
driver did not catch, as he kept them singing until they 
entered a weed-grown avenue, and walked up to a house 
that had once been handsome but now bore evidences of 
neglect and decay. Three or four dogs, fierce and snarl- 
ing brutes, dashed upon the new arrivals, and would have 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


139 


torn them to pieces if their master had not driven them 
back with his black snake whip. 

“You see what you can expect if any of you niggers 
ever try to get away,” he said with a significant glance at 
the dogs. “No one ever gets loose from those jaws alive.” 

Tom followed Sambo, a big, brutal fellow, to the 
quarters. He had thought of a rude but quiet place 
that he could keep clean, where there might be a shelf 



for his Bible, and a chance for rest and prayer after the 
long hours of labor. But here was a row of tumble- 
down kennels — mere shells, so dirty and forlorn and 
comfortless, that Tom’s stout heart failed. There was 
not a bit of furniture in any one of them, and the only 
bed was a heap of musty straw. 

“Which of these will be mine.'^” he asked submis- 
sively. 


140 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


“Dunno; yo kin turn in dar twell somebuddy dribes 
yo out. Dey don’ hab no place here dat ’longs ter any 
one. Yo alls got ter bunk in with a lot more niggers, I 
’spect.” 

It was late in the evening when the weary occupants 
of the shanties came flocking home — men and women, 
in soiled and tattered garments, surly and uncomfortable, 
and in no mood to look pleasantly on newcomers. The 
small village was alive with no inviting sounds ; hoarse. 



It was late * * * when the weary occupants of 
the shanties came home. 


guttural voices contending at the hand-mills, where their 
morsel of hard corn was yet to be ground into meal to 
fit it for the cake that was to be their only supper. From 
the earliest dawn of the day they had been in the fields, 
pressed to work under the driving lash of the overseers ; 
for it was now in the very heat and hurry of the season, 
and no means was left untried to press every one up to 
the top of their capabilities. Tom looked in vain among 
the gang, as they poured along, for companionable faces. 


UNCLE TOM^S CABIN 


141 


He saw only sullen, scowling men, and feeble, discour- 
aged women. To a late hour in the night the sound of the 
grinding was protracted ; for the mills were few in num- 
ber compared with the grinders, and the weary and feeble 
ones were driven back by the strong, and came on last in 
their turn. 

Tom was hungry with his day’s journey, and almost 
faint for want of food. 

“ Thar, you ! ” said Sambo, throwing down a coarse 
bag, which contained a peck of corn; “thar, nigger, 
grab ; take car’ on ’t ; yo won't get no more, dis yer 
week.” 

Tom waited until a late hour to get a place at the 
mills; and then, moved by the utter weariness of two 
women, whom he saw trying to grind their corn there, 
he ground for them, put together the decaying brands 
of the fire, where many had baked cakes before them, 
and then went about getting his own supper. It was a 
new kind of work there — a deed of charity, small as it 
was; but it woke an answering touch in their hearts; 
an expression of womanly kindness came over their hard 
faces; they mixed his cake for him and tended its 
baking; and Tom sat down by the light of the fire and 
drew out his Bible, for he had need of comfort. 

“ What’s that 1 ” said one of the women. 

“A Bible,” said Tom. 

•‘Good Ian’! hain’t seen un since I was in Kentuck.’ 

“ Was you raised in Kentuck ’’said Tom, with interest. 

“Yes, and well raised, too; never ’spected to come to 
dis yer ! ” said the woman, sighing. 

“ What’s dat ar book, anyway ” said the other woman. 


142 


YOUNG FOLKS* 


“Why, the Bible.” 

“ Laws a me ! what’s dat ? ” said the woman. 

“ Do tell ! you never hearn on’t ? ” said the other 
woman. “ I used to har missis a readin’ on’t sometimes 
in Kentuck; but, laws o’ me! we don’t har nothin’ here 
but crackin’ and swarin’.” 

“ Read a piece, anyways I ” said the first woman, curi- 
ously, seeing Tom attentively poring over it. 

Tom read — “Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are 
heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” 

“ Them’s good words, enough,” said the woman ; 
“ who says ’em ? ” 

“ The Lord,” said Tom. 

“I jest wish I know’d whar to find him,” said the 
woman. “ I would go ; ’pears like I never should get 
rested agin. My flesh is fairly sore, and I tremble all 
over every day, and Sambo’s allers a jawin’ at me, ’cause 
I doesn’t pick faster; and nights it’s most midnight ’fore 
I can get my supper ; and den ’pears like I don’t turn 
over and shut my eyes, ’fore I hear de horn blow to get 
up and at it agin in de mornin’. If I knew whar de 
Lor was I’d tell him.” 

“He’s here; he’s everywhere,” says Tom. 

“ Lor, you ain’t gwine to make me believe dat ar I I 
know de Lord ain’t here,” said the woman ; “ ’taint no 
use talking, though. I’s jest gwine to camp down, and 
sleep while I ken.” 

The women went oft to their cabins, and Tom sat 
alone by the smoldering fire, that flickered up redly in 
his face. 

The silver, fair-browed moon rose in the purple sky. 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


143 


and looked down, calm and silent, as God looks on the 
scene of misery and oppression — looked calmly on the 
lone, black man, as he sat, with his arms folded and his 
Bible on his knee. 

In the course of the next day, Tom was working near 
the mulatto woman who had been bought in the same 
lot with himself. She was evidently in a condition of 
great suffering, and Tom often heard her praying, as she 
wavered and trembled and seemed about to fall down. 
Tom silently, as he came near to her, transferred several 
handfuls of cotton from his own sack to hers. 

“ O, don’t, don’t ! ” said the woman, looking surprised ; 

“ it’ll get you into trouble.” 

Tom silently resumed his 
task ; but the woman, before 
at the last point of exhaust- 
ion, fainted. 

When she came to, at the 
risk of all that he might suf- 
fer, Tom came forward again, 
and put all the cotton in his 
sack into the woman’s. 

“ O, you mustn’t! you dun- 
no what they’ll do to ye I ” 
said the woman. 

“ I can bar it I ” ^ ^ 

said Tom, “bet- ^ 
ter’n you ; ” and 
he was at his ^ 
place again. It 
passed in a mo- 
ment. 

Tom sat down t)y the light of the fire. 



144 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


“ But that night, in the weighing room, Legree called 
Tom forward. 

“ Tom,” he said with a wicked smile, “ I told you when 
I bought you that I was going to make you more than a 
common hand, didn’t I now ? ” 

“Yes, mas’r.” 

“ That’s right. I did and I am going to keep my word 
and make you a whipping master. One of these lazy, no 
account women was seen shirking to-day and letting some 
one else fill her bag with cotton. Now, yoU' take her out 
and flog her; do you hear.f^ Flog her and save your own 
skin, or I’ll give the boys a job of bringing you to your 
senses.” 

Tom stood perfectly still and made no move toward 
the trembling woman. 

“Well!” shouted Legree, “be off with you to the 
whipping shed.” But still he made no sign. Then the 
fierce hand of the planter fell on his shoulder; but there 
was no fear in Tom’s eyes as he met the ones scowling 
above him. 

“I beg mas’r’s pardon,” said he; “hopes mas’r won’t 
set me at that. It’s what I ain’t used to — never did — 
and can’t do, no way possible.” 

“ Y e’ll larn a pretty smart chance of things ye never 
did know, before I’ve done with ye ! ” said Legree, taking 
up a cowhide, and striking Tom a heavy blow across the 
cheek, and following up the infliction by a shower of 
blows. 

“ There! ” he said, “ now, will ye tell me ye can’t do it.?” 

“Yes, mas’r,” said Tom, putting up his hand to wipe 
the blood that trickled down his face. “ I’m willin’ to 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


145 


work night and day, and work while there’s life and 
breath in me; but this yer thing I never shall do it — 
7iever ” 

Tom had a remarkably smooth, soft voice, and a 
respectful manner, that had given Legree an idea that 
he would be cowardly, and easily subdued. When he 
spoke these last words, a thrill of amazement went 
through every one ; the poor woman clasped her hands 
and said, “ O Lord ! ” and every one looked at each 
other and drew in their breath, as if to prepare for the 
storm that was about to burst. 

Legree looked stupefied and confounded ; but at last 
burst forth : 

“Ain’t I yer master.? Didn’t I pay down twelve 
hundred dollars cash for all there is inside yer old 
cussed black shell.? Ain’t yer mine now, body and 
soul.? Tell me!” 

In the very depth of physical suffering, bowed by 
brutal oppression, this question shot a gleam of joy and 
triumph through Tom’s soul. He suddenly stretched 
himself up, and looking earnestly to heaven, while the 
tears and blood that flowed down his face mingled, he 
exclaimed: 

“ No ! no ! no 1 my soul ain’t yours, masT 1 Y ou haven’t 
bought it — ye can’t buy it! It’s been bought and paid 
for by one that is able to keep it. No matter, no matter, 
you can’t harm me ! ” 


146 


YOUNG FOLKS* 


Chapter XIV. 


ILTALF blind with rage, Simon Legree followed Tom 
and the burly negroes who walked on either side 
of him to the whipping shed. The planter’s fierce and 
wicked heart was filled with murder as he thought of 
the words of his helpless slave. 

“I’ll show him whether I can hurt him or not!” he 
muttered. “ I’ll show him! ” 

The shed was some distance from the house, and it 

was lighted only by a 
lantern of tattooed tin 
which Sambo hung on 
the wall directly over a 
post set between iron 
rings in the side of the 
building. Quimbo and 
Sambo dragged Tom 
over to this and fastened 
him, with his face to the 
wall and his hands out- 
stretched and thrust 
through the shackles. 
Simon Legree watched 
the proceedings and 
with a savage laugh, 
went over and gripped 
Tom by his shoulder. 
“Do you know that 


‘♦Yes, mas'r,” answered Tom, calmly. 



UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


147 


I have made up my mind to kill you ? ” he said, speak- 
ing through his teeth. 

“Yes, mas’r,” answered Tom, calmly. 

“ I have done just that thing,” continued Legree. “ You 
think that I won’t; you think I will flog you a little and 
let you go. But I’ve brought you here to conquer or 
to kill. I’ll take your blood drop by drop until ye 
give up.” 

“ Mas’r,” said Tom, looking up backward into the ter- 
rible face of the white man, “ if yo was sick or in trouble, 
an’ I could save you, I’d give yo my life willingly. An’ if 
takin’ every drop of blood in my poor, old body would 
save your precious soul. I’d give ’em as freely as the 
Lord Jesus gave his for me. But this will hurt yo more 
than it will hurt me. I can only die ; but yo, mas’r, yo’ll 
have to carry the burden of a crime on your soul always.” 
t For a moment there was a silence. Legree stood 
aghast. Then the spirit of evil came back, and, foaming 
with fierce rage, the planter cried hoarsely: 

“To your whips, boys! ” 

The brutal tools of this brutal master swung the 
writhing lashes above Tom’s back. 

“ Cut deep when I give the word ! I’d take fifty dollars 
for his black carcass now.” 

“ Done I I take you at your word ? This man is 
mine!” 

A ringing, boyish voice rose above the fierce mutter- 
ings, as a young man burst, without one sign of warning, 
into the place, and flung himself in front of Tom and 
under the whips, that fell harmless before his lightning 
:glance. 


148 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


The planter stepped back in amazement and the 
negroes crouched against the wall, but Tcm turned his 
dazed and patient eyes up to the stranger’s face, and a. 
cry, ringing and triumphant, burst from Ins lips: 

“Mas’r George! My own little Mas’r George! Thank 
God ! ” 

George Shelby threw his arms around the bare form 
of the slave. “Uncle Tom,” he sobbed, “dear Uncle 
Tom, I have been searching for you everywhere; but I 
came in time to save you at last ! But I shall have 
something to settle with this demon before we go home.’^' 

He worked with shaking hands to untie the ropes 
that held Tom, and his face was white as he turned to- 
look for Legree. But the place was empty, save for him- 
self and Tom, who was now sobbing and praying at his 
feet; for the planter, like all tyrants, was a coward and 
in fear of the law, which he knew would deal terribly 
with him in the end. The arrival of the young white 
man, at the very moment when he had intended to kill 
Tom, seemed to his excited brain to have been through 
some supernatural agency, although, as a matter of fact,, 
the boy had been trying for two months, since the death 
of his father, to find and bring back to the Kentucky^ 
plantation the faithful old servant and friend. His 
arrival, opportune as it was, was the natural result of the 
trip up the turbid Red River, on a wheezy little steamer 
which stopped for coal near the Legree farm, and the in-^ 
formation he had received before starting northward 
from New Orleans, that a man by the name of Legree 
had bought one of the St. Clare servants named Tom. 
So much for the facts in the case. But who shall say 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


149 



“ Mas’r George ! My own little Mas’r George ! Thank God ! 


150 


YOUNG FOLKS* 


the Lord of Hosts was not guiding the deliverer to that 
whipping shed ? 

When Tom had recovered somewhat from the shock 
to his rescue, George linked his arm in his, and together 
they went up and entered the house. Legree, who had 
gathered a few scraps of his courage by this time, looked 
up with a scowl and sneer. 

“ I suppose you’ve come to buy that black scoundrel,” 
he said. Well, I tell you right now that I won’t sell 
him.” 

He swaggered around the boy, threateningly; but he 
did not know how brave a heart and cool a head he 
was dealing with. 

“ Oh, yes you will,” answered George, looking into the 
small, cruel eyes of the planter until they fell abashed 
before him. “You will sell Tom and allow him to leave 
this place with me at once, or answer to the court of 
justice for more crimes than the attempted one I myself 
witnessed a few moments ago. There are white men 
ready to swear as to what goes on in this place, and as I 
am a Kentucky gentleman, I shall bring you to justice!: 
Come, make out your papers. I will pay you what you 
gave for Tom.” 

Tom looked at the lad with tears of pride and joy in his 
eyes. In that hour he had become a man, strong and 
powerful to defend and protect. Legree watched him a 
moment between his half-closed eyes, but the young face 
was unafraid and resolute, and finally with a laugh more 
terrible than a groan he slouched over to the table, drew 
writing materials toward him and made out the bill of sale. 

George, with an air of brisk business, counted out the 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


151 


money and pushed it toward the slave-driver, then putting 
the papers in his pocket he turned, without a word to 
Legree, and stretched his hand to the black man standing 
silent as a statue at the door. 

“Come, Uncle Tom,” he said, “the old house and the 
old friends are waiting for you. Aunt Chloe and the 



George counted out the money. 


children are listening for your steps. I’m going to set 
you free as soon as you are inside your cabin door. Hark ! 
there is the steamboat whistle at the landing. Come, 
Uncle Tom, you and I must be going home.” 

Together they left the place, and the planter sat long 
at the table where he had made out the bill of sale, with 
his face buried in his hands. What he thought only the 


152 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


One who reads all hearts could know; but the servants 
tiptoed softly by the door, and whispered to each other as 
they stood in hushed and startled groups outside the 
house: 

“ Ole mas’r done got his come uppance dat time, shore/’ 

Aunt Chloe had donned her best calico dress and a 
turban of bright Turkey red adorned her head. The 
children fairly shone in their clean white frocks that Mrs. 
Shelby had sent to them from the great house in honor 
of the expected arrival. There was not a spot or speck 
on the shining cleanness of the place anywhere, and 
outside the door Mose and Pete, fine large boys now, 
thrummed on their banjos, and after imitating all the 
notes of the birds familiar to them, struck up a tune of 
their own like this : 

“ Bar’s a little chickadee singin’ in de brush 
Little missy catbird, now yo hush. 

Bar’s a little chickadee sez to me, 

Yo ole daddy’s gwine be free. 

Oh, ain’t dis a good time ! ” 

Aunt Chloe stepped to the door. 

“ Yo all hasn’t hearn no bosses hoofs com dis way yit, 
has yo chillun Yo pa an’ Mas’r Georgie mus’ be 
almos’ yere.” 

“ Nome, we isn’t hearn nuffin. Oh, mammy! ” 

“ Yes, honey.” 

Pete looked up anxiously into his mother’s face. Some- 
thing trembled long on his lips before he could speak it. 
Then he said, “ Mammy, w’at if Mas’r Georgie kaint find 
daddy nowhar.f^ ” 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 153 

A resounding slap on the side of his face rewarded 
this lack of faith. 

“ Hush yo mouf talkin’ dat er way ’bout yo own Mas’r 
Georgie. Cose he’ll fin’ him. I’se gwine ter put de 
chicken on ter fry dis berry blessed minute. What’s dat 
I done heah } ” 

“ Nuffin. mammy. Dey ain’t no sound yit.” 

But Aunt Chloe’s heart heard before her ears could 
possibly catch a sound, and her black face grew beautiful 
with love and thankfulness as she said brokenly : 

“ Sing, chillun ! strike up the bestest tune yo know. I 
heah de rumble of wagon wheels on de road yander. Yo 
pa is almost home.” 

The boys caught up their banjos and sang and danced 
with all the curves and pigeon-wings imaginable, and 
Mrs. Shelby came down 
the steps of the great house 
and walked over to the 
cabin. She saw the re- 
joicing, and the expectant 
look on the faithful old 
face of the waiting wife. 

“ Aunt Chloe,” she said 
very gently, “ don’t set 
your hopes too high. 

Maybe, after all, George 
has not been able to find 
T om. W e have not heard, 
you know.” 

The black woman raised 
her hands to heaven. 



*<Hush yo mouf talkin’ dat er way. 


154 


YOUNG FOLKS* 


“ Don’ yo all doubt no mo’, missy,” she said, “ I knows. 
Hark! ” 

From the distance came the faint but ever increasing 
sound of a high, sweet tenor voice, accompanied by a boy’s 



uneven notes, and tears of joy streamed down white cheeks 
and black cheeks alike as the waiting listeners heard : 

“ Home, home, sweet, sweet home. 

Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.” 

Nearer and clearer and more strong came the song, 
while smiles blossomed beneath the tears, and in a few 
moments a light wagon dashed into the yard and up 
with its two happy occupants to the door of Uncle 
Tom’s cabin. 



UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


155 


Chapter XV. 


T^IVE times the roses had bloomed and the begonia 
blossomed on the cabin by the Shelby mansion. And 
the years had brought strange changes to the beautiful 
South. The smiling fields had been trampled by, the feet 
of armies, and the terrible battles of the civil war had been 
fought among the hunting grounds of the gay and care- 
free Southern planters. George Shelby had kept his word, 
and freed the slaves on his estate when he returned to the 
old home with Tom. Some of them had 
gone into other States, but the most of them 
had remained as hired laborers on the place, 
and they were there, a guard of honor for 
the “ young mas’r ” and his mother during 
the terrors of the rebellion. Now the 
battle flame and fire had vanished and the 
old home life had been resumed. Tom 
had become the manager of the farm, and 
he had been able, by his wise judgment, 
to repair the losses that the family suf- 
ered during the four years of war. While 
neighboring plantations had been ruined 
and laid waste, the Shelby acres were as 
productive as ever, and the planting and 
harvesting went on without interruption, 
whatever the conditions of the country 
might be. 

Mrs. Shelby, a little changed by the 



George now stood switch- 
ing his whip. 


156 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


passing years, but still fair and sweet, sat out on the ve- 
randa with a magazine in her hand and talked to George, 
who had just sprung from his horse and now stood switch- 
ing his whip in his hand, and laughing at the antics of a 
group of pickaninnies on the lawn. He had grown to 
be a handsome man, and his face was str ing and full of 
kindness. 

“ I am looking forward with much pleasure to the 
visit Miss Ophelia St. Care is going to make us,” said 
Mrs. Shelby. “ I grew to feel quite ell acquainted with 
her through the letters we exchanged about Tom. I 
urged her to come down for a month and she has accepted. 
I expect she will bring her maid, that funny little Topsy 
we have heard so much about, with her.” 

“ She went back to the north somewhere, after the 
death of Mr. St. Clare, didn’t she.? ” 

“Yes, she returned to Veniont. Mrs. St. Clare was 
a most unfortunate lady, I beiieve. Sick, and without 
ability to feel for others.” 

George looked up with in affectionate smile. 

“ Bless the gentle little ^lother,” he said. “ Any one 
else might have described h t with a harsher term than 
‘unfortunate.’ But when is Miss Ophelia coming.?” 

“ Why, I am not i uite sure. I told her that she need 
not let us know, for we were sure to be at home, and the 
surprise would be delightful. Tom goes to every train 
from the north. I knew he would be glad to be the first 
to welcome her. She was kind to him in the old days 
for the sake of that beautiful child they both loved, 
little Eva.” 

“Little Eva,” repeated George, softly. 


V 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 157 




168 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


“ Did you ever see the curl of golden hair that she gave 
Tom when she was dying? It is a sacred thing to him. 
The little girl must have been an angel on earth to those 
poor slaves. There is a carriage turning into the drive, 
mother. Who do you suppose is coming? ” 

Mrs. Shelby rose and walked to the edge of the veranda. 

“ It must be Miss Ophelia,” she said. “ Do see the 
joy on Tom’s face? ” 

Tom was driving with an air of triumph most unusual 
to his sober ways, and his face was wreathed with smiles. 

“ Why, no, mother. That is not Miss St. Clare,” said 
George; “there are three people in the carriage — a lady 
and a gentleman and a boy.” 

Tom drove up with a flourish, and the woman sprang 
out, ran up the steps and clasped Mrs. Shelby in her arms. 

“ Oh missy, dear missy,” she cried, between tears and 
laughter, and with much joy Mrs. Shelby exclaimed: 

“ Eliza, my dear, dear Eliza.” 

George Shelby had gone down to take George Harris 
by the hand, and to greet his little pet of other times, 
brown-eyed Harry; and by and by Mrs. Shelby turned 
from Eliza to give them heartiest welcome. 

“You shall have your old room, dear girl,” she said, 
“ and Harry shall have the one adjoining. Does he know 
how you ran away with him in your arms that night so 
long ago ? ” 

The young man looked up with a flush of emotion on 
his face. “ I know, Mrs. Shelby,” he said, “ and I am 
trying to be worthy of my brave mother.” 

Tom came up to the steps and talked with Harris and 
his son, while Mrs. Shelby carried Eliza off to her room. 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


159 


In the few minutes when the visitor was smoothing her 
hair and freshening her toilet, the woman who had been 
her friend and mistress learned of all the details of their 
escape and final flight into Canada. 

George occupied a position of trust and importance 
with a banking firm, and Harry had just been graduated 
with honors at school in Amherstburg, and had excellent 
prospects for a successful business career. 

“ But my heart yearned for a sight of your dear face, 
missy,” said Eliza, dropping into the old form of address 
for affection’s sake, “ and as soon as we knew that we 
could come with safety, that the war had freed the slaves, 
and the freedom we bought so dearly could not be taken 
away from us, we made up our minds to come.” 

Out on the veranda George Shelby listened with inter- 
est to the account Harris gave of the fight with the slave- 
catchers on the rocks, and the subsequent help the 
wounded enemy gave them. 

“ Upon the advice of Tom Loker, after *1 was obliged 
to shoot him, and who was nursed back to health by a 
gentle Quakeress and glorious old Phineas Fletcher,” said 
George Harris, ‘‘ Eliza dressed in man’s clothes and 
made Harry look like a little girl. The officer had been 
warned of our escape, and advertisements were posted 
on every fence-post and tree, offering a reward for our 
capture. ^500 was to be paid for me, living or dead. 
The one who had branded my hand with a hot iron only 
wanted to be sure that I would never be a free man. But 
our disguises protected us. And I had the satisfaction 
of standing close beside Marks and hearing him say : 

“ I have watched every one that came on board and I 


160 


YOUNG FOLKS’ 


am positive that they are not on this boat. You would 
hardly know the woman from a white one and the man 
is a light mulatto,” he continued. “ He is branded with 
the letter H on his right hand.” 

“ I was taking my tickets from the clerk at that mo- 
ment with that very hand. But it did not tremble, and 
I turned coolly away and went down to the cabin to 
Eliza and the boy. The bell sounded and Marks and his 
pack of detectives went down the gang-plank to the shore. 
We saw them from the lower cabin, but we made no sign 
of the great relief we felt. Hours went by and we went 
up on the deck to catch the first glimpse of those blessed 
Canadian shores. On and on the swift boat swept. 
Eliza laid her hand on my arm and I felt it tremble 
as the boat neared the small town of Amhertsbiirg, 
Canada, and a mist gathered before my eyes. The land- 
ing was made and with Harry in my arms we went 
ashore. I was afraid that Eliza would faint as we crossed 
that plank. It was like walking across the gulf that 
leads to heaven. But she was brave to the last, and in a 
moment we were standing, with tears of thankfulness 
streaming down our cheeks, under God’s free sky, with 
life before us. For a little while, until the boat moved out 
again, we stood there in silence. Then when we were free 
from the gaze of curious eyes, we knelt down on the sand, 
with our arms around the boy, and gave thanks to God.’^ 

Harris told the story with many interruptions from 
Tom, who exclaimed at intervals: “Bless the Lord!” 
“Glory be to God! ” and many other expressions of his 
devout faith. And there were tears in the eyes of George 
Shelby as he listened. But when Harris asked for the 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


161 


story of Tom’s return neither could speak. But he laid 
his black hand, with infinite tenderness, on his young 
masr’s shoulder and said: 

“ Mas’r Georgie an’ me ’ll tell yo that some other time.” 

Chloe, in a new turban and gay neckerchief over her 
clean calico dress, came panting around the side of the 
veranda, and Eliza fled to her arms, and all the company 
came in for blessings. She admired Harry and exclaimed 
over the “quality looks” of Eliza and George, and 
finally carried them off to the cabin for one of her 
famous suppers. 

“ I done yank’d a chicken right out o’ his skin jes de 
minit I seed Tom dribin’ in de yard,” 
she said, “an’ de supper’s mos’ ready. 

Ise gwine feed li’l Harry wif de same 
co’n dodgers dat his Mas’r Georgie uster 
eat. Lan’, Ian’, how dat chile uster keep 
me bakin’, an den he’d put up his sassy 
li’l haid an’ say: ‘ I brags yo up ter Tom 
Lincom, Aunt Chloe,’ sez he; ‘ I brags yo 
up ter Tom Lincom. Der cook kaint hoi’ a can- 
dle ter yo.’ Yo all ’member dat, Mas’r Georgie ’ 

“ I remember. Aunt Chloe. And I brag you 
up just the same now. I’ll be over after supper. 

Have the boys get out their banjos, Tom, and let 
them dance and sing. We must have a jolly cele- j 
bration in honor of Eliza.” 

The group turned toward the cabin. Aunt 
Chloe’s fat sides still 
shaking with laughter 
over the praise she had 





1 done yank’d a chicken. 


162 


YOUNG FOLKS* 


received, and Harry, looking with serious eyes at the 
once familiar scenes of his childhood, George Shelby 
had started up the steps of the house when he turned 
suddenly and called : 

“ Tom, you better go up to the evening train. Miss 
Ophelia and Topsy may be here in time to join us this 
evening.” 

He went in doors and found his mother sitting and 
smiling in the shadows, and he bent his proud young 
head and kissed her without a word. 

After supper Mose came with a number of colored 
paper lanterns in his hands and an illuminating smile on 
his black face. 

“ I ’lowed missy ’d like ter have these yere hung up 
’round the gallery, seein’ we all ’s goin’ ter have more 
cump’ny.” 

“ That’s a good idea, Mose,” said Mrs. Shelby. “ I 
think Miss Ophelia will be pleased at that.” 

“Yessum,” beamed Mose, “an’ I ’spects Miss Topsy 
’ll be pleased, too.” 

Mrs. Shelby laughed. “ Oh, I see,” she said, “ Topsy 
is the attraction.” 

‘"Yessum. I’se done made up a song for huh, too.” 

He hung the bright Chinese lanterns in a curving line 
from post to post and fastened a few to the trees. Then 
he lighted them and they gave the whole place the ap- 
pearance of a festival. 

“ I hope that we shall not be disappointed now, Mose,” 
she said. “ Why are you so sure that they will arrive 
this evening ? ” 

Mose looked up confidently. 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


163 



The two women clasped hands in a friendship that 
lasted all their lives. 


164 


YOUNG FOLKS* 


“ Mammy felt ’em cornin’ in huh bones,” he replied, and 
went on stringing more lanterns; an occupation that he 
did not cease until they heard the sound of wheels on 
the red clay road, and the carriage entered the big gate. 
Mrs. Shelby stood in a shaft of light made by the open 
door behind her, as she went forward to greet her guest,, 
and the tall New England spinster thought she had 
never bowed to so sweet a presence as that little South- 
ern lady’s. The two women clasped hands in a friend- 
ship that lasted all their lives, and then George came 
forward with a cordial welcome to the visitor, while Tom 
approached Mrs. Shelby to say: 

“ This is Topsy, missy. I scurcely knowed her my- 
self, ’case she’s growed so smart an’ tall jes’ like a holly- 
hock in the garden. But this is the same little gal my 
Missy Eva loved before she went to glory.” 

Mrs. Shelby greeted the black girl kindly, and then 
told Tom to take her to the cabin and introduce her to 
Chloe. Mose stepped out of the shadow of the porch 
as they passed, and the three entered the cabin together. 

Miss Ophelia was given an account of the return of 
Eliza and her happy family, and the history of her flight 
from the old plantation ; and after the somewhat formal 
supper was over they all went down to the cabin, as 
strains of music warned them that the celebration had 
begun. Aunt Chloe had the same embarrassment about 
providing chairs for her guests that she had on the 
occasion of the prayer meeting on that night when 
George led the reading, and walked home with his 
young heart full of love for his humble friends, the 
night before the day that saw Tom sold. A thought of 


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 


165 


this crossed his mind as he sat down on the overturned 
soap box near the door, and he looked up to see his 
old friend regarding him with a world of eloqu nee in 
his black face. 

Aunt Chloe drew out a rocker and an arm chair for 
her mistress and Miss Feely, and Mose took the floor 
with a profound bow to his spectators and b^^gun sirging 
to the accompaniment of his banjo, alterna ing clicking 
his heels and knocking his knees and failing into a 
double shuffle with the measures of the tune. The per- 
formance was all conducted for the benefit of Topsy, 
who was seated in state well forward in the room de- 
voted to the danc ng. 

Mose walked forward and back, singing, with many 
glances toward her : 


“ Dar was a little cullud gal dat lived 
down souf, 

De rose it quit a bloomin’ when it 
seen huh mouf, 

Dey tuk huh up de ribber in 
de ice an’ snow. 

An’ de lily quit a buddin’ 
when it seen huh go.” 

All the mischief that had 
Teen Topsy’s strongest char- 
acteristic sprang to her face, 
and in a moment she was 
up and taking part in the 
merry dance with all her old 
time spirit. 



Topsy, who was leaping and whirling, and 
kept time to the melody of the song. . 


166 


YOUNG FOLKS* 


Miss Ophelia gave one shocked cry: “Topsy!’^ and 
then turned to say to Mrs. Shelby : 

“ Dear me ! She has not acted this way before for 
years.” 

Mrs. Shelby looked with amused eyes at the girl, who 
was leaping and whirling, with shining teeth and eyes, 
and with feet that kept time with the melody she sang.. 

“ She is on her native heath now,” she said, laughing, 
“and this is the Topsy that I hoped to see. Do let her 
play.” 

All the famous songs and dances of the plantation 
were given in the simple frankness and good nature of 
a negro festival, and it was late when the ladies rose to go. 

They stepped out into the night. The lanterns had 
burned themselves out, but the moon’s silver lamp 
shone in full radiance in the sky, and when they looked 
back from the veranda, they saw the rays rest like a bene- 
diction on the gray head of Uncle Tom, as he waved 
them “ Good-night ” from the rose-covered doorway of 
his own home. 


THE END. 


























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